It was written—scattered across the texts of every religion.
A warning.
What differed was never the message… only the translation.
The modern world had long lost the original version. Some called them the Adamic Texts—relics swallowed by time, erased by the slow decay of history.
But that… couldn't be further from the truth.
The truth was far simpler.
Humanity was a destructive race.
They learned how to kill—perfected it, even. Some devoted entire lifetimes just to become better murderers. Division became their nature. Unity was nothing more than a fragile illusion.
They judged themselves by color and tongue… by belief and doctrine.
And in doing so—
They lost the right to the truth.
Hidden from the eyes of the mundane, there existed a man.
A man who did not age.
A man who did not die.
For billions of years, he walked the face of the earth alone, gathering fragments—every last piece of the original texts. Words that could elevate humanity… or erase it entirely.
He took them all.
Leaving behind only traces.
Fragments.
Clues that were never meant to be understood.
His motives were unknown.
And so, his path could never be followed.
Some believed he sought death—that after an endless existence, he desired an end, and the ancient texts were the only things capable of granting it.
Others believed something far worse.
But whatever the truth was…
His actions fractured humanity even further.
The remnants he left behind were interpreted.
Misinterpreted.
Translated into belief systems.
Religions were born from shadows of truth.
His thoughts became scripture.
His silence became doctrine.
And yet…
Every single one of those beliefs—no matter how different—ended the same way.
"The Last Day."
"The Day of Reckoning."
An inevitable end.
A collapse that would leave nothing untouched.
Some believed.
Some twisted it into power.
Some ignored it completely.
And some… never even heard of it.
But none of that mattered.
Because belief was never a requirement.
It was coming.
No one knew when.
But the how—the how was everywhere.
Written in fragments.
Some said the sun, moon, and stars would fall.
Some spoke of flames that would cleanse the world.
Some believed the worthy would ascend—dead or alive—while the unworthy would remain behind, ruled by a dragon.
Others whispered of beasts… ancient and merciless… unleashed to purge humanity from existence.
Different words.
Different visions.
One conclusion.
The end would be apocalyptic.
And then… it happened.
On the final day, the truth of the original texts—The Texts of Origin—was revealed.
Not through words.
But through reality itself.
The hidden families rose.
They stood as the last line between humanity and the beasts of Apocalypse.
And for a moment… a single, fragile moment—
It seemed as though one religion had been right.
But that thought did not last.
Because on that day—
Every translation was proven true.
The dragon descended.
The celestial bodies fell.
Armageddon rained from above.
Flames swept across the earth.
Beasts tore through what remained.
The serpent rose… and usurped.
Everything happened.
All at once.
All as one.
And even then…
Not everything had been written.
There were truths left out.
Truths that revealed themselves only when it was too late.
The dead rose.
The marked awakened.
Hidden forces broke free from their ancient restraints.
And somewhere… deep within the unraveling world—
Azazel was released.
But even among all these horrors…
One stood above the rest.
"The First Vengeful Spirit of Second."
No one truly understood it.
But all who witnessed it agreed on one thing—
Nothing before it compared.
Nothing after it mattered.
It was this final tribulation that confirmed the existence of the cursed immortal.
And according to those who survived…
He was still alive.
Somewhere.
Watching.
The Almighty… the ancient gods… whatever remained of them—
Left humanity with paths to survival.
Few.
Cruel.
Unforgiving.
Two percent.
That was all.
When the tribulations ended, the torment began.
And with each torment…
A trumpet sounded.
One.
Two.
Three…
Even the hidden families—those who had stood against the apocalypse—were forced back into hiding.
They could not withstand what came after.
And then…
The final trumpet sounded.
Silence.
A silence so vast it smothered the world.
It lasted… for an unknown length of time.
Because by then—
Time itself had already been taken.
On that day, the earth lost more than life.
It lost its very structure.
It lost its bodies of illumination.
It lost its element of passage.
It lost its element of growth.
Time could no longer be measured.
A day could stretch into a thousand years.
Or collapse into a single breath.
And without time—
Growth ceased.
A child remained a child.
Forever.
An old man remained bent and broken.
Forever.
Of course…
That only mattered if you survived.
And yet—
Even in that broken world—
Hope appeared.
No one knew where it came from.
No one knew who planted it.
It simply… spread.
It began after the descent of The One of the North.
They said it was the last witness of heaven.
A being left behind to observe.
To judge.
To search for those who were still worthy.
Others interpreted it differently.
"The Almighty has not forsaken us."
"Even now… we are still being judged."
That thought alone shattered what remained of human sanity.
People searched desperately for the old scriptures.
Anything.
Any fragment that might explain what had become of their world.
But nothing remained.
Books survived.
Words did not.
Pages once filled with meaning were now blank.
Stripped of ink.
Stripped of memory.
Stripped of truth.
So humanity did what it always did best.
It adapted.
The remnants of mankind began to move.
From every corner of the ruined world, they migrated—drawn toward the last surviving landmass.
Because the earth had changed.
The oceans had risen.
Swallowing continents whole.
What remained…
Was one.
A single, vast continent.
Even then, humanity could only claim half of it.
The rest belonged to something else.
Beasts.
Creatures of unknown origin.
Unnatural.
Unforgiving.
No one knew where they came from.
But everyone knew one thing—
Encountering one… was never fortune.
And yet—
The hidden families hunted them.
For reasons no one understood.
As for the rest of humanity…
They tried to live.
As normal as possible.
Because death…
Was no longer an escape.
Suicide had lost its meaning.
And death itself had abandoned mankind.
No human could die.
Not by age.
Not by injury.
Not by will.
There was only one exception.
"Will Erasure."
The only true death left in existence.
Faced with a world without answers, humanity made a decision.
A familiar one.
They would write again.
New scriptures.
New beliefs.
New meanings.
Not because they understood.
But because they needed to.
And so, the first of the new scriptures was written.
DIES LUDICII.
The Day of Judgment.