5000 Years Later
Five thousand years had passed since the Ancient Nephilim erased the old kings, reshaping the world with a single, merciless hand.
Inside the capital of the Human Empire, sunlight glinted off towers that scraped the clouds, reflecting off polished glass and living surfaces that pulsed like veins. Hovering cars hummed through the air, docking with gentle precision at floating platforms, while a train glided silently across the sky, powered by glowing, intricate Anima circles.
And there, among the pulse and bustle, a tall young man trudged through the streets, hands shoved into the pockets of a dark hoodie, face hidden beneath its shadow. One hand clutched a melting ice cream.
"Ahhh… fuck this sunlight," he groaned, the sugar and warmth of the cone forgotten.
Azra hated it here. He hated being here. He hated that his annoyingly persistent assistant had been dragging him out for six months straight, forcing him to mingle with this bright, artificial world.
Tch. He'd much rather be in his room. Gaming. Alone.
A sharp memory of her predatory, mischievous grin made him shake his head.
"Five thousand years, huh… Humans are… interesting," he muttered, voice low, almost to himself.
He looked up, and the city stretched before him like a painting of civilization perfected. Towers pulsed with living light, dragon riders streaked across the skies, and citizens moved like clockwork through the polished streets. Then he saw it—the central square.
A massive statue rose there, impossibly tall. Its features barely resembled his, though they were close enough to spark irritation. Beneath it, carved in absurdly grandiose letters:
THE MAN ABOVE ALL, GOD OF ALL RACES.
Azra's jaw tightened. "That bastard king," he muttered, tossing his ice cream to the ground where it splattered uselessly against the stone. "I never asked for this. Why make me… supreme god?"
A flush crept up his neck as he stared at the inscription. The absurdity of the title made him want to scream.
"Who the hell wants a title like that?!"
Passersby froze, glares slicing across him like blades. Some whispered. Some knelt. The audacity of a man openly mocking the divine—again—was enough to unsettle even the most confident citizen. Azra rolled his eyes and walked away, boots clanging against the polished streets.
A roar echoed above, and dragons swept across the sky, humans astride them like falconers of legend. Azra smirked.
I spared their race. Let fate decide. And now? Humans, once puppets of that old war… now flying high with the race they once fought, living in their gilded cage. How ironic. Fate really is a cruel, twisted game.
He turned a corner and entered a small gaming store, its air heavy with nostalgia—the scent of card sleeves, paper, and a faint hint of old libraries tickling his nose. Rows of preserved cards stood like books, neat and inviting.
"TCG… should I buy one?" His voice was calm, almost bored.
Nearby, a display for a famous online game caught his eye: The Swordmaster and the Regressor. The cover showed a man and woman floating in a storm of magic—twin siblings, their hair a deep midnight blue, eyes piercing with uncanny clarity.
He picked it up and strode to the counter.
"This, and two packs of those cards."
The young cashier smiled, bright and innocent, unaware of the disaster she was handling.
"Cash or card, sir?"
Azra handed her his card.
She froze.
"…What's wrong?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"N-nothing… Your Majesty," she stammered, bowing slightly.
Azra sighed. "…Ah. Right." The black card shimmered faintly, an official royal signet. Guild staff nearby bowed nervously, some muttering prayers, others scrambling out of sight. Azra shook his head.
"I just want to play games, damn it," he muttered, walking past the trembling clerks.
56 Hours Later
The room was dim, only the glow of a massive screen illuminating the scattered pizza boxes and empty drink cans. Azra lay in a blanket cocoon, stretching as the credits rolled on the post-epic finale of The Swordmaster and the Regressor.
"Hmm… not bad. I see why it's popular," he murmured, rubbing the corners of his eyes.
The post-credits scene lingered. A skinny man in a tuxedo appeared on-screen, grinning foolishly.
"Oh, it's him," Azra whispered, amusement curling his lips.
The side character. That idiot who kept seducing every female character—what was his nickname again? Right… the failed Rizzler, the pathetic gigolo of the academy.
Reading the credits, his eyes widened.
Job: Gigolo.
"…Wait."
He burst into laughter, a rich, genuine sound that bounced off the walls.
"Pfft—HAHAHAHA! He really became a gigolo!? That's insane."
Then, the sharp trill of his phone sliced through the quiet. He glanced at the screen and froze.
"Oh shit."
"Azraelion—what the hell—"
"YOU LAZY BASTARD!!! Where the hell are you!?" Uriel's voice cracked like a whip.
"Well, I'm training—"
"Training my ass! Get here now, Your Majesty! Or I'll come to you—no, scrap that, I AM coming!"
"Wait, you don't need to—"
Click.
Azra cursed under his breath. "…Fuck."
He leapt to his feet, preparing to leave, when a black light streaked across the sky with horrifying speed.
BOOOOOOM!
A skyscraper erupted in fire, shards of glass and steel raining down as shockwaves slammed into nearby buildings. Civilians screamed, Anima barriers flaring as guards scrambled to protect them.
"What the hell is that!?" someone shouted.
Above, two impossible figures hovered. Knight-like armor glinted, their red masks reflecting the violet glow that radiated from Azra's windows.
One descended slowly, their eyes piercing through a shimmering violet barrier.
"Greetings, Azraelion, Anchor of This World," the being intoned, voice chillingly calm.
Azra raised a hand, exhaling slowly.
"Blame your fate. The Outer Beings have taken interest in this world."
Space itself twisted around him as gravity warped, air rippling unnaturally. And then… a scream cut through it all, raw and agonized, a sound that made Azra's heart twist.
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"
He looked down.
His super-limited billion-credit console lay shattered on the ground. Pieces sparkled faintly, melted circuits and alloy glinting like a graveyard of his beloved childhood.
"MY SOOOOOOOON!!!"
Silence followed. Utter, suffocating silence.
The two Outer Gods stared at him, confusion mirrored in their masks.
"…What?" Azra muttered, voice flat, irritation blooming over panic.