The wind slithered across the ramparts like something alive, whispering through the gaps in the ancient stone. Beneath the restless night clouds, the city lay exposed—fortified, yes, wrapped in thick walls of age-worn granite, but vulnerable all the same under the pale judgment of the moon. Silver light spilled over rooftops and alleyways, tracing the quiet breaths of sleeping lives below.
A mailed hand tapped a shoulder.
"Hey. Shift change."
The man slumped against the battlement didn't stir at first; exhaustion had pressed him deeply into the cold comfort of the wall. Both wore the same heavy iron armor, both held torches sputtering in the wind, and both shared the same unspoken belief that tonight would be just another quiet night.
After rousing his companion, the first guard let his gaze drift across the city. Silence. Perfect, serene silence. The kind that tricked the heart into believing peace was permanent. For a moment, the calm eased something inside him—a weight he never admitted was there.
Then his eyes wandered outward, beyond the walls, toward the southern horizon.
And his breath froze.
A smear of crimson stained the distant sky, pulsing like a wound.
"Look south!" he shouted, voice cracking. "The sky—it's red!"
Armor clanged and torches jolted as the other guards lurched awake, panic stirring across the wall like a wave. But when he turned to the friend he'd shaken earlier, the man was still asleep—or refusing to wake. A cold dread scraped down his spine.
He glanced back at the bleeding horizon—
And saw the black speck.
Small at first.
Then growing.
Multiplying.
His fingers trembled as he lowered the torch and snatched up his binoculars. The glass met his eyes.
He wished it hadn't.
A swarm. Dozens—no, hundreds—of shapes tearing through the sky. Not birds. Not anything natural. Things that flew without wings, gliding with sickening, impossible grace, silhouettes twisting in ways that mocked the laws of the living.
His throat closed. The binoculars slipped from numb hands and clattered onto the stone.
He grabbed his friend—both hands this time—shaking him, slapping him, desperation leaking into every movement.
"Wake up! Wake up, damn you! We're under attack!"
Behind him, someone finally reacted. A guard he barely recognized seized the rope of the warning bell and pulled with all his strength. The first deep, ancient toll thundered across the night.
Then another.
And another.
Soon every tower, every corner of the wall, was screaming with the clangor of iron despair.
"Attack! A major attack!" voices roared, overlapping in fear.
Torches flared, feet pounded, and shouts spilled down into the slumbering streets as guards raced to rouse the city.
Moonlight spilled like liquid silver through the towering windows, flooding the vast chamber in a cold, serene glow. The curtains swayed gently, whispering against marble floors. At a lone desk near the center of the room, a young man sat hunched over a thick, leather-bound book, its pages filled with countless entries—memories of a life borrowed, stolen, or gifted, depending on how one looked at reincarnation.
Clad in royal sleepwear embroidered with sigils of a kingdom that feared him as much as it revered him, he dipped his quill and wrote:
"Day 6678 since my reincarnation. The last two days passed in a rare calm, a strange contrast to the three days before—three days of endless puppet-army raids across the continents. In my territory, it ended with a single attack from me. Effortless. Almost boring."
A faint sigh escaped him as he continued writing.
"But the other cities… they struggled. Their cries reached even here. So I sent Elazar, Mira, Leo, Sistine, Rebecca, and Mauritine. A small gesture, but enough. Teleportation makes distance meaningless, after all."
Before he could dip his quill again, the tranquility shattered.
DONG—DONG—DONG—
The bell.
The warning that was never wrong.
Its iron voice reverberated through the city, through the walls, through his bones.
He stared at the page for a moment longer, then calmly wrote:
"The attack comes tonight. I will go."
He shut the book before the ink even dried.
With a soft exhale, he raised his hand. A transparent blue panel materialized in front of him—a status window familiar only to him and the gods who had put him here. His own face stared back: silver hair, crimson eyes, features too youthful for someone who had lived almost twenty years in this world.
Level 734.
Title: Demon Lord.
A title he never asked for, never wanted, but one the world insisted on giving him—because nothing else could explain what he was.
He tapped the bag icon. Space rippled, then tore open like silk. From the rift he pulled his armor piece by piece—obsidian-black plates that drank the moonlight instead of reflecting it—and his weapons, humming faintly with mana that remembered old wars.
As he fastened the armor to his body, the bell rang again, louder… faster. Screams began to rise in the distance.
He walked to the window and unlatched it. Cold wind rushed in, carrying the scent of panic.
A brief thought crossed his mind—an echo of the boy he used to be, long buried under power and expectation:
If I fail… how many will die tonight?
The thought didn't paralyze him.
It pushed him forward.
He stepped onto the windowsill, eyes hardening.
"Time to work."
And with a single motion, he hurled himself into the moonlit night.
Chaos ruled the battlements.
The soldiers trembled behind their shields, eyes fixed on the nightmare swelling across the horizon—an airborne horde so vast it darkened the moon. They had trained for war, for monsters, for magic… but not for this. Not for a sky that writhed like a living storm.
And in the midst of their panic, something dropped from above—a dark shape cutting through the wind with impossible speed.
THUD.
He landed among them with the calmness of a man stepping off a carriage.
The soldiers flinched, weapons rising, breaths tightening—
Until they recognized him.
"Your Majesty!" one guard cried, voice cracking. "T-There's a massive flying army attacking! Thousands—no, tens of thousands!"
The young demon lord brushed dust from his armor, his expression unreadable in the moonlight.
"I know," he said quietly. "All of you—stand back. I'll handle this."
For a moment, the soldiers hesitated… then parted like water around him, forming a wide circle. Their panic dimmed, but only barely; fear clung to their faces, trembling in their legs, pulsing in their throats.
He looked at them—really looked—and something heavy twisted in his chest.
If only you knew…
He hid the thought behind a steady expression as he stepped forward, the bells still screaming overhead.
If only you knew I was the demon lord who wipes out these attacks in a single breath… maybe you wouldn't look so terrified. But the moment I finish, I erase your memories. Again and again.
His fingers curled slightly, a faint glow leaking from the cracks in his gauntlet.
My poor people… forgive me.
Forgive your king who protects you with lies—
because the truth would break you.
He lifted his gaze toward the bleeding sky.
"Stay here," he murmured, voice cold as the moon. "I'll end this before fear spreads any further."
He raised his hand toward the sky, speaking with a calm that steadied even the trembling air around him.
A bright, blinding white radiance gathered in his palm, swirling like a star compressed into mortal flesh.
Skill: Nova—
The soldiers felt the pressure in their lungs, their hair lifting from the immensity of the power he was about to unleash.
But—
"It's not that easy."
A pale hand materialized out of nothingness, gripping the Demon Lord's wrist like a vice. The light shattered instantly, dissolving into the wind like fragments of a broken sun.
The world seemed to freeze.
Before them, from the distortion of space itself, a figure slowly formed—a young man draped in white, his hair as pale as moonlight, his silver eyes cold and insulting. The disdain in his gaze was sharper than any blade.
Gasps escaped the soldiers. Their king stood face-to-face with someone who looked almost… divine.
The Demon Lord didn't flinch. Instead, he smiled—a small, effortless smile, the kind he wore when facing something inevitable.
"Skill: Pocket Dimension."
Darkness responded instantly. A black portal tore open beneath their feet, its edges swirling like a devouring abyss. It surged upward, swallowing both men.
Before he vanished completely, he glanced back at the stunned soldiers and spoke with gentle finality:
"I'll leave this place to you."
Then he was gone.
The portal snapped shut in an instant, the air collapsing into a suffocating silence. No sound, no wind, not even the distant screams of the approaching enemy dared to fill the void he left.
The void around them convulsed, a jolt of space that felt like the heartbeat of a dying star. The Demon Lord gritted his teeth; he could sense they were nearing their destination. The white figure's grip on his wrists was unyielding, cold as iron, but not unbreakable.
With a surge of strength, he seized the mysterious enemy's hand in return and swung, intending to hurl him through the shifting void. The white figure stumbled, swaying, yet recovered with impossible grace. With a swift, cruel motion, he returned the blow. The Demon Lord slammed into the ground, the impact peeling the floor apart in a jagged path, shards of energy scattering like fallen stars.
The sky above—midday now, blinding and stark—felt alien, its light unlike anything he had ever seen. Yet the white figure remained unfazed, his calm a blade against the chaos around them.
The Demon Lord rose slowly, brushing off debris, bruised but unbowed. He met the enemy's gaze, voice calm yet commanding:
"Welcome… to my dimension. Only I can enter and exit here. You are trapped."
The white figure approached, each step deliberate, as if walking on air. A faint, disdainful chuckle drifted from him.
"Isn't the load too heavy… to process and simulate all this?"
Reiss tilted his head, perplexed. The words felt meaningless—rambling, almost. But his mind was already moving faster than speech. I forgot to contact the others. I need the network. He touched the edge of his consciousness, reaching for the telepathic link.
"Before we begin… introductions," he said aloud, forcing calm into his tone. "My name is Reiss. Nice to meet you."
The telepathic network connected, erupted around him, a storm of voices in his mind:
"Rateia is under attack!"
"Are you fighting a powerful one? I can't believe there's a Cerberus here!"
The white figure paused, silent for a fraction of a heartbeat, before answering, his voice as sharp as ice:
"My name is Aranon."
A faint smile tugged at Reiss's lips. "I've caught a big one here too, guys."
The voices surged again, urgent, mocking:
"Reiss?! Where have you been?! The puppet army attack is striking again!"
"Reiss online? Hey, you idiot Demon Lord!"
Reiss ignored the intrusion, focusing back on Aranon. His tone was light, teasing, but beneath it lay steel:
"I don't know how you know that name. One thing's certain—you're not my little brother."
Aranon smiled, slow and disdainful, as if the world itself were beneath his notice.
Particles of light coalesced from the void, spinning lazily at first before snapping into form. In a single, fluid motion, they gathered in Aranon's hand, condensing into a sword of pure radiance—a blade that seemed to devour the darkness around it.
Reiss's crimson eyes narrowed. "Appraise."
He tried to scan Aranon—his stats, his power, his very existence—but the skill registered nothing. Nothing. It was as if Aranon didn't exist at all, like a ghost who had rewritten reality itself.
"Siri," he murmured, the voice in his head soft and feminine. "Do you have any suggestions for dealing with this… person?"
"I don't detect anyone around us," Siri replied, calm, mechanical.
Reiss's jaw tightened. What...?
He tried again. "Siri, suppose there's someone who's completely undetectable by your Appraisal skill, and you can't sense their presence at all—what do we do?"
Her robotic tone continued, unwavering. "That's impossible, because I am always using my skill—"
"No. Just… if he exists, what are the odds?" Reiss cut her off.
"Consider the possibility of an impossible phenomenon. The answer is: it is impossible," Siri concluded.
Reiss let out a soft exhale, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Of course. I can't rely on Siri for this fight.
Series Skill: Nineteen Gates of Hell.
The world trembled.
The ground cracked with a thunderous groan as a colossal ornament—intricate, ancient, and impossibly detailed—manifested in the heavens above. It resembled a magic circle, but not one formed of mana. No—this one looked solid, forged from the despair of ages, a sigil heavy enough to warp the sky itself.
Below it, the boundless plains shrank to insignificance, dwarfed by the overwhelming scale of Reiss's resistance skill.
Meanwhile, in a distant city—
Mauritine's battlefield.
A deafening impact slammed into the stone wall. Dust and smoke swallowed the world in a choking cloud. For a moment, there was only silence—until the smoke split apart, pushed away by a flash of silver.
Mauritine stood there, shining in bright argent armor, his expression tense.
"I want to focus on this situation first!" he shouted into the haze.
A wave of iron puppets surged toward him, screeching as their gears twisted. Still pinned against the wall, Mauritine tightened his stance.
The first puppet lunged.
Mauritine parried in a blur, kicking it with such force that its metal body spiraled away like scrap. Another attacked with a spear. He caught the weapon mid-thrust, wrenched it free, and drove it through the puppet's core with a metallic shunk.
More poured in—too many, too fast.
Mauritine gripped his sword. His eyes sharpened.
Skill: Baricade Slash.
With a single sweeping arc, his blade carved through the approaching line. Metal bodies split apart effortlessly, collapsing like broken puppets they were.
He leapt, landing on another portion of the wall. But the horde was relentless—they swarmed him in seconds.
He raised a hand, palm spread.
Skill: Air Bomb.
The air around them compressed violently, dragging the puppets inward against their will. The pressure built, groaned—
Then exploded, scattering the metal bodies like shrapnel.
Before he could breathe, a voice pierced his mind.
Mauritine, did you say Cerberus?!
The panicked voice belonged to a woman—one of their team.
Mauritine's vision flickered, sharing her perspective:
A burning city, drowning in flames. Flying puppets swarmed like a plague of metal locusts. And behind the smoke…
a silhouette.
Huge.
Three heads breathing fire into the sky.
"Yeah," Mauritine replied, wiping soot from his face. "That's why I'll be… busy for a while. Good luck, everyone."
He exhaled.
The smoke around him trembled as mana coalesced.
Skill: Condensed Perfect Clone.
The swirling smoke tightened, shaping itself into humanoid outlines—nine of them. Each took form as a perfect replica: Mauritine's expression, his armor, his stance.
Nine shadows of himself stood ready.
"You deal with the puppets," Mauritine ordered, raising his sword toward the burning skyline. "I'll take the monster."
The clones bowed their heads.
And then—
Like arrows fired from the same bowstring,
they launched into the city in nine different directions,
while the real Mauritine sprinted toward the colossal silhouette roaring in the heart of the flames.
The communication network hummed faintly—thin silver threads of magic linking friends scattered across distant cities.
Far to the south, in the adventurer capital of Rateia, the peace of night shattered.
The fire didn't come as mere scattered shots.
It arrived as a beam—a roaring stream of blazing projectiles tearing open the sky like a wrathful comet.
The tall, black-haired young man moved before thought could form.
His blade carved the darkness.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Three fireballs burst apart on its arc, exploding into clouds of molten embers that washed the street in orange light.
He didn't even pause to admire the deflection.
With his free hand, he reached back and caught the wrist of the small blue-haired girl behind him.
"Move!" he barked, pulling Mira forward just as another wave of fireballs screamed down the avenue.
Heat chased their heels as they sprinted. In one fluid motion, the young man swung Mira upward, leaping onto the nearest rooftop.
Then another.
Then another—
rooftop to rooftop, racing the storm of fire that hunted them.
"Mira! Water Shield!"
Still half-pulled through the air, Mira twisted her torso, aimed her long magic staff forward, and unleashed her spell.
Skill: Water Shield.
The blue crystal at the staff's tip ignited, releasing a vortex of water that spiraled outward, thickening—flattening—stretching—
until a wide, circular mirror of liquid sapphire shimmered before them.
The next barrage hit.
FWOOOM! FWOOOM! FWOOOM!
The shield quivered under the assault. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface, glowing red from the heat—but it did not break.
They kept moving, slipping from roof to roof, fireballs streaking behind them like a chain of furious suns. Every blast scorched tiles and split stone, painting the night in furious reds and burning gold.
But the enemy's aim sharpened.
A final fireball streaked in—and struck the rooftop they landed on.
BOOOOM!
The world lurched.
Tiles shattered beneath their boots. The roof caved inward.
The explosion tore their balance away.
Both of them were flung off the edge—
falling—sliding—crashing across stone and dust as the night dissolved into heat, rubble, and the ringing roar of destruction.
The blue-haired woman staggered to her feet, rising from the swirling cloud of dust. Her eyes snapped toward the man sprawled on the cracked stone.
"Elazar!"
The enemy's silhouettes emerged through the haze—too many, too close.
Without hesitation, she drove the base of her wand into the ground.
Skill: Quantuple Heavy Barrier.
Five translucent green walls erupted outward with a deep, resonant hum, layering themselves into a dome of shimmering protection just as the first barrage struck.
Mira's panic bled into her voice—and into the network.
"Elazar!"
A burst of static, then several voices crackled instantly into her mind.
"Mira, what's happening to Elazar?!"
"Are you two all right?!"
Before she could answer, another voice—the one she most wanted to hear—cut through.
"I'm here," Elazar said, coughing as he pushed himself to his knees. "You guys… fighting only puppets and monsters over there?"
Mira whipped her head toward him. "Elazar—you're okay—?"
Her words dissolved beneath the thunder of impact.
Dozens of colorful skill-bursts slammed into the barrier from all directions, splashing against the green walls like rain made of magic and fire. Each collision flickered the dome, distorting the air with heat and force.
Elazar wiped blood from his lip, rose slightly, and continued grimly through the network:
"We're here fighting…"
Another explosion struck, shaking the barrier.
"…adventurers."
Outside the dome, the truth was undeniable.
The adventurers attacking them wore strained, desperate faces—as if compelled by something unseen. They unleashed their skills in perfect, unnatural synchronization: blades of wind, arrows of lightning, bursts of stone, torrents of fire.
And from a different angle came another threat—
the puppets, marching forward with eerie precision, launching volleys of iron projectiles that clanged like metallic rain.
Two forces that should never cooperate moved as one.
Inside the shimmering cage of green light,
Elazar and Mira were trapped—
caught between adventurers and puppets,
and outnumbered by both.
In another city, far from Rateia's chaos, a roar of laughter cracked through the night.
"Hahahahaha!"
A man with wild red hair threw his head back, sunglasses glinting even in the dark. "If only you knew my situation now!"
Before the echo of his laughter faded, two puppets lunged at him from opposite sides.
He didn't bother turning his head.
His sword moved for him.
A single-arm sweep—heavy, precise—parried the first puppet's blade.
A flick of the wrist—sharp as lightning—split the second puppet clean across the torso.
Metal bodies clattered to the ground while he continued staring upward, unmoved.
His sunglasses reflected the sky—
a sky drowning in blinding white.
The entire city had been swallowed by it.
Streets, rooftops, towers—everything shone like polished bone under a sun that wasn't a sun.
Far away, on the outskirts of a cliff-side forest, a merchant slept in a makeshift camp.
Groggy and half-asleep, he shuffled up only to relieve himself—grumbling as he stumbled toward the cliff's edge.
Then the world struck him.
A blinding surge of white light seared through the gaps in the trees.
He froze.
His eyes widened as he stared toward the distant city.
Though tiny from where he stood, the light blooming above it was impossibly enormous—
as if a titanic spear of pure radiance had been thrust down from the heavens, its tip aimed straight at the heart of the city.
Around that colossal spear swarmed thousands of dark, fluttering shapes—
shadows, moving like a vast plague of locusts blotting out the stars.
"That weirdo Leo is laughing. He must be fine," a woman's voice crackled across the communication network.
Another voice followed—cool, breathless, and sharpened by exertion.
"It's night where you are, but it's still broad daylight here."
Sistine sprinted through a massive city woven into the heart of an ancient forest. She was tall, black-haired, and fast—faster than the tree roots tearing through the ground behind her like serpents hunting prey.
A root lashed upward—Sistine vaulted over it, twisting midair.
Another slammed sideways—she slid under it, boots skidding across mossy stone.
Ahead, a horde of puppets rushed her.
She reached for her pistols.
Two flashes of silver.
A burst of recoil.
She leapt upward—
Gunfire fractured the air.
Every puppet struck by her shots exploded into splinters before their bodies hit the ground.
Landing lightly, Sistine kept running, speaking calmly into the network between breaths.
"In Fael'Verinth, I'm fighting living plants. Aggressive ones."
A woman's voice replied instantly, tinged with exasperation:
"That's the worst kind of enemy for that city."
Another chimed in—Mauritine, his tone blazing with confidence.
"Let's trade, Sistine. I'll burn those trees to ash."
Sistine smirked. "Calm down, Mauritine. And what about you, Rebecca?"
The network carried the sound of chaos—shouts, clashing steel, explosions.
In Rebecca's city—sunlit just like Sistine's—the sky was choked with flying puppets, swarming so densely that they turned the daylight into a flickering patchwork of shadow. Adventurers and city guards fought below, overwhelmed by the mechanical storm.
Rebecca exhaled heavily.
"It's just full of dolls. Hundreds of them."
Sistine clicked her tongue.
"As usual—Rebecca and her ridiculous luck stats."
Day or night, different sides of the world—
the battlefield was the same:
chaos, enemies, and the thin silver thread of their voices holding them together.
The sky groaned.
A low, bone-deep rumble spread outward like a ripple across the heavens—
then the vibrations shook the world.
"This skill… it summons the very aura of the underworld itself."
Reiss exhaled, the air around him warping with heat and pressure. "Forgive me, Aranon… if I overdid it and caused you pain."
Above them, Reiss's spell continued to unfurl—
an ever-expanding sigil carved into the heavens, its spiraling patterns glowing like molten scripture etched across the sky.
Every second, the constellation of runes grew larger, more elaborate, as if a colossal demonic hand were painting its mark upon the world.
Then Reiss spoke the invocation.
"First Gate: Gate of Drought."
A wave of invisible force rippled outward.
The earth crackled.
The air turned dry and thin—like the breath had been ripped out of it.
The Gate of Drought never killed.
But it always withered.
Yet Aranon stood there, unshaken.
Calm.
Steady.
Watching Reiss with eyes that glimmered like tempered steel.
Reiss felt sweat trickle down his neck.
He's barely affected…? Even with this much aura leaking out…
He clenched his teeth.
"I can't open too many gates at once…" he muttered under his breath. "Not yet."
The sigil above him pulsed.
The sky roared.
The pressure of hell's aura thickened, pushing against the world like an incoming storm.
"I have no choice…" Reiss decided, lifting his gaze toward the growing infernal mandala.
"…I must buy time until the Ultimate Skill is ready."
Aranon.
He struck like a meteor, his heel driving into Reiss's stomach.
The impact folded Reiss in half—his thoughts shattered, his breath stolen—before he was hurled across the battlefield. He smashed into the earth, a thunderous plume of dust and shattered stone rising around him.
Before the cloud settled, Aranon was already upon him.
A beam of light ignited—Aranon's lightsaber, now a spear of pure radiance—and plunged toward Reiss.
Still kneeling in the dirt, Reiss whipped up his sword, catching the lethal thrust inches from his throat.
Aranon had expected the parry.
His knee rocketed upward, slamming into Reiss's chin with brutal precision.
Reiss flew again, skidding across the field—but this time, he twisted mid-air and landed squarely on his feet. Blood dripped down his lip, and his breath trembled. Yet his eyes did not waver.
He whispered the incantation, lips barely moving.
"Second Gate—Gate of Tremors."
The sky above shuddered as another colossal ornament blossomed into existence—an ethereal sigil stretching across the heavens.
Aranon's fingers twitched. His hands began to shake uncontrollably as the Gate gnawed at his nervous system.
Reiss wasn't done.
"Third Gate—Gate of Blood Mist."
A scarlet haze seeped from the towering ornament, descending like a slow, suffocating fog. The air thickened—corrosive, burning the lungs, draining stamina with every breath.
High above, the Gates—giant carved symbols—filled the horizon from west to east, as if the sky itself had been rewritten.
Reiss exhaled, steadying his stance.
"The more you attack me…" he said, voice low and cold, "…the faster the next Gate awakens."
He raised his sword.
Skill: Abyss Rend.
The blade carved the air in rapid, merciless arcs.
Dozens of massive black waves surged forth, each one distorting light itself. The world seemed to bend around their edges—space warping, shadows stretching, reality trembling under their weight.
Aranon didn't flinch.
His lightsaber expanded—lengthening, widening—until it became a radiant greatsword.
With a single hand, he swung it in sweeping, effortless motions.
Each wave that met the blade exploded outward, deflected to the sides, kicking up hurricanes of dust and darkness.
Reiss vanished.
Skill: Fast Step.
He reappeared behind Aranon—silent, sudden, deadly.
Black aura coiled around his sword like smoke.
He thrust forward, aiming for the heart of the distracted warrior.
But the moment the blade neared Aranon's back—
BOOOOM—!!
A black explosion erupted point-blank.
The force tore Reiss from his feet, hurling him violently into the distance.
And then—his own unreflected Abyss Rend waves, the ones Aranon had not bothered to deflect—came crashing down on him.
One after another.
Devouring everything.
The sky itself looked carved open where the waves had passed—hollowed, gouged, as though entire chunks of the firmament had been cut away.
Aranon hovered in the air, descending slowly, watching the devastation unfold.
Before him, where Reiss had stood, there was nothing but a towering storm of smoke and a trench gouged deep into the world—stretching so far that the end was lost beyond the horizon.
Gravel rained like dull metal, clattering over stone and soil.
Reiss lay half-buried in the darkness, the world around him cracked open into a pit that swallowed all light.
Only a thin sliver of sky was visible above him—small, distant, like a window glimpsed from the bottom of a vast, black abyss.
He exhaled once.
Skill: Crimson Rewind.
A ripple of crimson light coursed across his body, turning back the clock.
Cuts vanished. Bruises evaporated. Bones realigned.
His stamina surged—returning him to the moment before the battle had even begun.
Reiss rose, smiling crookedly in the dark as power hummed beneath his skin.
One after another, the Gates opened.
Fourth Gate: Gate of Withering.
Muscle fibers dried, stiffened—weakening the target's raw physical force.
Fifth Gate: Gate of Brittle Bones.
A hellish vibration ran through the skeleton—turning bone into fragile glass.
Sixth Gate: Gate of Emptiness.
Spirit drained. Mana thinned. Skills dulled to pale imitations of themselves.
Seventh Gate: Gate of Rejection.
Luck fled. Fortune recoiled. Every dodge became unreliable—every block uncertain.
Eighth Gate: Gate of Remorse.
Illusions of guilt seeped into the mind. Regret clouded focus.
Ninth Gate: Gate of Soul Tremble.
A shard of the soul split—wracking spiritual pain through the body.
Tenth Gate: Gate of Rotting.
Flesh subtly decayed, draining health with every moment.
Eleventh Gate: Gate of Severed Rhythm.
Timing ruptured. Attack speed faltered. Spells delayed.
Twelfth Gate: Gate of Self-Division.
Voices echoed. Shadows duplicated. Accuracy collapsed beneath hallucination.
Above them, the celestial ornaments—vast geometric horrors of hellish light—turned like grinding gears across the heavens. Every rotation shook the world.
Reiss laughed as the earth trembled.
"Aahahahaha! I didn't expect my own attacks to accelerate the process!"
He steadied himself and lifted his sword.
"Skill:—"
His words cut short.
A blur.
A hand.
A crushing force wrapped around his throat.
Aranon.
He appeared without warning, slamming Reiss into the earth so violently the ground cracked like a shattered mirror. Reiss's sword flew from his grip as both his hands instinctively clawed at Aranon's iron-tight hold.
The earth gave way under them.
Aranon didn't stop.
He drove Reiss downward—through layers of stone, then deeper—forcing him through the dark strata as if pushing a nail through rotten wood.
A reddish glow bloomed around them.
Stone blackened.
Rock softened.
The temperature skyrocketed.
They plunged into the molten layers of the earth.
Reiss didn't burn—Absolute Heat Resistance turned the inferno into mere warmth—but Aranon's grip did not loosen.
Reiss twisted his right hand, gathering power.
Skill: Soulflame—
But Aranon's greatsword dissolved into motes of light, freeing his left hand.
He seized Reiss's wrist, crushing it and cutting off the skill before it ignited.
Then—calmly, brutally—Aranon released Reiss's throat, spun him around, and clamped a hand over his skull.
Face-first, Reiss was driven deeper.
The molten rock parted like liquid fire as they descended, until the heat vanished—replaced by a blinding radiance.
A dense, brilliant white layer appeared beneath them, impossibly bright, as though the earth hid a sun of its own.
Aranon slammed Reiss into it.
The light quaked.
Reiss's body buckled.
He tried to recover—but Aranon did not give him the chance.
Hovering above him, Aranon began striking—again and again—each blow shaking the subterranean world, beating the newly restored Reiss while he remained utterly defenseless, crushed against the radiant layer of the earth's hidden heart.
Aranon continued his assault.
Each blow was a detonation—bone-rattling, world-crushing.
Reiss's vision dissolved into pure white with every impact, so bright it drowned the edges of reality. He couldn't see Aranon's face, couldn't see the ground, couldn't see himself—only white, and the crushing force that kept driving him deeper, deeper, deeper.
His thoughts scattered like shards.
Why? Why am I still… losing?
Am I still not worthy? Even as the Demon Lord… I'm not enough?
Aranon's fist cratered the glowing layer beneath them, sending tremors rippling outward like quakes beneath the skin of the world.
Reiss's heart twisted.
This Aranon… using my brother's name… No.
No—this monster is the cause of it all. The global attacks. The puppets. The cities burning.
He's the one behind it.
He has to be.
Aranon raised his hand again, and Reiss felt the pressure of an entire dying world poised above him.
Something in him broke—
not a bone, not a muscle, but a piece of hope, a piece of pride, a piece of everything he once thought he was.
But something else rose in its place.
Resolve.
If he fell here, the others—Elazar, Sistine, Rebecca, Mira, Mauritine, Leo—
they would still be fighting.
Still trying to survive.
Still trusting him.
He couldn't let this monster walk free.
Even if it killed him.
Even if his body burned away.
Even if this entire underground realm collapsed on top of them both.
Aranon's assault paused for a fraction of a breath.
Barely a second.
But it was enough.
Reiss lunged forward, choking on white light, on pain, on his own trembling breath. He thrust both hands toward Aranon—toward the one person he refused to let live another moment.
"Skill: Infernal Nova!!"
A black sphere of raw annihilation bloomed between his palms.
The white around them shattered—
turning pitch-black in a heartbeat, like ink flooding divine marble.
Then the sphere detonated.
A shockwave howled out in every direction—
a ripping, tearing, reality-breaking roar that made even the molten layers of earth twist like cloth in a storm.
Far above them, the sky itself convulsed.
The ornate illusions carved upon the heavens flickered—then widened, becoming windows to something far beyond.
The planet shattered.
Not in a single clean break—
but in agonized slow motion, as if the world itself was screaming.
A tidal surge of black energy tore across the sky, expanding in jagged waves like the claws of some ancient abyssal demon. Mountains broke. Continents fractured. Oceans boiled upward into space before becoming ash.
Fragments of the world spiraled outward—
cities, stone, soil, lives—
ground down into dust finer than sand.
In the end, nothing remained but an echoing ripple:
a drifting cloud of gray dust,
suspended in the silent void
where a living planet had once spun.
And in that endless emptiness,
the last remnants of the black blast wave faded—
like the dying breath of a devouring god.
Reiss floated there, his clothes torn and drifting like burned banners around him. His eyes fluttered open—stinging, heavy—and he saw it:
The planet that had once sprawled beneath them
was gone.
Not shattered into continents.
Not split into molten fragments.
Gone.
A bloom of black dust scattered across the stars where a world used to be.
For a moment, he simply stared—stunned, trembling, struggling to understand the scale of what he had unleashed.
Did I… really destroy it? Did Aranon… fall with it?
His breath hitched.
A shiver ran through him.
Relief washed over him first—warm, dizzying, almost unreal.
I did it.
I won… I won.
But that relief lasted only a heartbeat.
Because Reiss knew who Aranon was.
What he represented.
What he controlled.
If Aranon survived… the world is doomed.
Just in case—just in case Aranon somehow still existed—Reiss forced his battered, aching body upright. His limbs shook violently, but he raised his arm toward the endless empty dark.
One by one—
no, all at once—
he opened every remaining Gate.
Thirteenth Gate: Gate of Breathless Void
A crushing pressure rippled outward, suffocating any living presence in its radius. The very air of the void constricted, bleeding stamina from all enemies caught in its reach.
Fourteenth Gate: Gate of Spiritual Ruin
Invisible chains spread through the cosmos, latching onto enemy minds. Wills cracked. Inner resolve crumbled to ash.
Fifteenth Gate: Gate of Unmaking
A pulse erupted—pure erasure. Any armor, shield, defense, or barrier within the blast collapsed as though scraped out of reality.
Sixteenth Gate: Gate of Eternal Silence
A silent wave swept across the void. Any enemy touched by it was severed from all support—no healing, no blessings, no auras, no restoration.
Seventeenth Gate: Gate of Slow Death
A creeping curse unfurled. All foes in the radius felt their life-force slip away unpredictably, draining in torturous, irregular pulses.
Eighteenth Gate: Gate of Black Judgment
Hell itself gazed outward. A colossal, unseen verdict weighed every enemy nearby—stripping away half, or nearly all, of their power.
The illusion of the Ornament still hung in the heavens—
a vast, celestial mandala carved from impossible geometry, its rings turning with the sound of grinding worlds.
Even with the planet below reduced to drifting dust, the Ornament remained suspended in the void, like the lingering memory of a god's eye refusing to close.
But as Reiss invoked the final gates—
one after another, thirteen through eighteen—
the Ornament began to stir.
At first, the shift was subtle.
A faint pulse.
A shimmer.
A tremor in the lines of ancient design.
Then the void itself seemed to inhale.
The Ornament brightened—
the faint glow growing into a slowly surging radiance,
spreading outward like molten light filling the grooves of a colossal engraving.
Every ring, every sigil, every impossible angle of its structure ignited.
Light crawled through the celestial diagram
like fire racing along carved channels of an infinite spell circle.
The planet broke apart behind him—reduced to drifting black ash—yet Reiss barely registered the apocalyptic backdrop. His breath trembled in the void as he clutched the last strands of the communication network, forcing a connection.
I have to contact the others… They need to know…
Static. Shouting. Panic. The voices slammed into his ears like debris from an exploding world.
"Elazar—what's wrong?!"
A breathless, shaken voice responded.
"Mi—Mira… Mira…!"
Reiss's chest tightened.
"Mira?! What's wrong with Mira, Elazar? Answer me!"
The network fractured—becoming a storm of overlapping voices, distorted emotions, and echoes of fear.
Then—
A voice Reiss knew better than his own heartbeat.
"Hoooh… so you people have a wireless communication system… How interesting."
His breath froze.
"Mira?"
"Mira, is that you—?"
"Elazar—what's happening?!"
The network dissolved into chaos again.
Reiss tried to stay calm—forcing his mind to anchor itself, grasping at the threads of distorted voices.
Then came Elazar. Quiet. Breaking.
"…Sorry. I'm sorry, everyone."
Those words shredded through the channel like a knife.
The network erupted—shouts, curses, cries, disbelief.
Elazar continued, voice cracking apart:
"That wasn't Mira.
Mira… She's been captured.
She's—
They turned her into a puppet…"
Something broke inside Reiss.
Not a bone.
Not a muscle.
But something deeper—something that once held him together.
The feeling hit him harder than any blow Aranon had landed.
No breath came.
His pulse roared in his ears.
The void around him seemed to tilt, distort—like gravity itself was being pulled toward the hollow forming in his chest.
…Mira…?
No. No. No.
His vision blurred—not from pain, but from something worse.
He felt the weight of the destroyed planet behind him, the drifting cosmic dust…
The silence of annihilation closing in.
Then he sensed it—
A familiar pressure in the void.
Aranon.
Floating in the distance. Approaching with quiet, inevitable steps through the air—
as if gravity obeyed him alone.
Reiss closed the communication channel with trembling fingers.
The chaotic voices faded into a suffocating silence.
He lifted his head slowly.
The truth settled in his chest, heavy and cold—
Mira was gone, and Aranon was still coming.
Reiss inhaled, the void tasting metallic and thin.
His grief twisted into something sharper.
Something burning.
He faced Aranon again.
Siri's calm voice echoed in Reiss's mind—
"Nineteenth Gate. Ultimate Skill ready for use."
The void around him was endless, cold, unmoving. He felt as though he were suspended in nothingness, a broken mote drifting without direction.
"Because I'm in the void, I can't move," Reiss muttered under his breath. "I can only float aimlessly…"
But Aranon—
Aranon moved freely, walking upon nothing as though the emptiness itself bowed to him.
A chill crawled down Reiss's spine.
His thoughts sharpened—How?
Then a voice—
A voice that did not pass through the communication network.
A voice that slipped directly into his skull.
"Reiss Arden Valen."
Reiss's entire body twitched.
His eyes locked onto Aranon, who hovered in the distance with a faint smile—his lips unmoving.
Telepathy.
No—something deeper.
Aranon's voice slid into his consciousness like a blade sheathed in silk.
"Or," Aranon continued calmly, "may I call you Elliot Mason?"
The name stabbed through him.
His heart lurched.
His hands trembled violently.
His breathing turned sharp, ragged, uneven—
as if the void itself suddenly had air to choke him.
"How… how do you know that name?" Reiss whispered—not with his mouth, but with his mind.
Aranon didn't answer immediately.
He raised his greatsword, the void bending around the blade.
"That is not important."
Then, slowly, deliberately, he pointed the greatsword at Reiss.
"My job here," Aranon said, each word echoing with impossible weight, "is to send your soul to its proper place."
Reiss froze.
Proper place?
What place?
What soul?
His thoughts spiraled wildly.
I was reincarnated into this world a few years ago… Why is he talking like— No. No. It can't be—
His confusion ignited into fury.
"I NEVER ASKED TO BE REINCARNATED INTO THIS WORLD!!"
The rage he broadcasted telepathically shook even the void.
Aranon's expression did not change.
"Even babies say the same thing when they grow up," Aranon replied coldly. "They complain about being born into a world they never chose."
A pause.
Then a quiet, merciless sting—
"You, who have been a baby twice, have not changed in the slightest."
Reiss's anger deepened—
turning molten, then volcanic, then blinding.
But Aranon's voice cut through him again:
"Hand over your souls, Reiss.
Your lost souls have become an anomaly—
disrupting the balance of this world."
His tone was neither cruel nor compassionate.
Just absolute.
Unquestioning.
A verdict, not an argument.
"Take it yourself if you want it!!" Reiss roared into the void.
The sky—or what passed for one—shattered.
Nineteenth Gate: Ultimate Skill — Malik.
The last white celestial ornament tore itself apart, unraveling into a colossal silhouette. Wings—thousands of them, layered infinitely—unfolded like a sea of feathers devouring the cosmos. They stretched so far into the void that Reiss and Aranon seemed to stand inside the ribs of a sleeping god.
The wings circled them like an embrace. A holy prison. A fake heaven.
Aranon threw his head back and laughed.
"Ahahahaha! You call this Malik?"
His laughter suddenly stopped, replaced by a cold, knowing grin.
"Trust me… If you'd ever seen the real Malik, you'd know how insulting this little puppet truly is."
Reiss's voice trembled—not from fear, but from rage and desperation.
"No matter! This... is enough to finish you!"
Aranon let out a soft, pitying exhale.
"You've tarnished Malik's name with that stupid skill of yours. But don't worry..."
He raised his right hand.
His greatsword dissolved into motes of light.
"When you reach hell, you'll learn who Malik really is."
His fingers shaped a gun.
Index finger raised.
Thumb cocked back.
Aranon closed his eyes—serene, almost gentle.
Then opened them.
"Hypernova."
A bead of light formed at his fingertip. Minuscule. Harmless-looking.
It drifted forward like a lazy spark.
Reiss braced himself—
But halfway between them, the bead detonated.
The cosmos turned white.
A sphere of annihilation blossomed outward—
first silent,
then screaming with every color of radiation.
Red waves tore through the void, shredding space itself.
Planets—simulated or not—melted like wax before a furnace.
In Reiss's pocket dimension—a carefully crafted solar system of his own making—
the sun at the center collapsed instantly into dust.
Planets disintegrated before they even realized they were dying.
Moons were flattened into particulate clouds.
Oceans vaporized into cosmic steam.
The Hypernova didn't stop.
It couldn't.
Its force slammed into the farthest edge of the pocket dimension, and the realm—unable to contain the violence—burst outward, rupturing like an overfilled sphere of glass.
The entire solar system folded in on itself, then exploded, a cascading collapse of reality.
The world trembled.
In a familiar city—Reiss's city—adventurers, monsters, beastkin, elves, dwarves, royal guards, soldiers, knights… all races fought side by side against the endless, marching legion of puppets. Blades flashed. Spells cracked the air. Metal shrieked against bone and wood.
Then, without warning—
the city bloomed into white light.
Not an explosion.
Not fire.
Erasure.
Everything simply vanished.
A colossal claw tore through the air toward Mauritine. He ducked under it, boots scraping the stone, sprinting for his life across the war-torn battlements.
Skill: Retreat Break.
His body flickered backward in a blur, landing hard against the city wall. Gasping. Drained. Too tired to even stand.
And then—
the sky turned white.
Mauritine froze.
Far beyond the horizon, a sphere of light—massive, roaring, devouring—swelled outward, the shape too perfect, too bright to be natural.
Across the city, a water missile spiraled through the streets with impossible precision, weaving after its target like a serpent made of pressure and death.
Elazar backflipped away, sword slicing through it, sending the water blast hurling into nearby houses. Fragments of rooftops showered down.
He landed atop the royal castle, exhaling sharply—
And stopped breathing altogether when he saw her.
Floating before him.
Mira.
But not Mira.
Her skin had turned to metal—smooth, reflective, molded as though following the outline of her clothing. Her eyes were closed, etched with thin metal seams running down her cheeks like frozen tears. A puppet's imitation of sorrow.
Elazar's chest tightened.
The sky beside him brightened—
white… too white… expanding… growing…
He slowly turned.
A gigantic sphere of burning light was swelling in the air.
Deep in a sprawling forest, Leo sprinted between ancient trees, clashing again and again with a shadowy figure. Leaves split. Branches tore. The canopy hid the sky—
Until a sudden shockwave roared through the world.
A wall of wind slammed into him, ripping entire trees from the soil and hurling Leo and his enemy aside like insects.
He stared upward as the forest bent, flattened, and imploded under the force.
Aranon's Hypernova had broken through Reiss's pocket dimension.
It did not merely escape.
It punched through that artificial cosmos, tore it open, shattered its boundaries—
and spilled into reality itself.
Its expanding brilliance devoured the sky, flooding cities, forests, mountains—
a catastrophe unleashed across the world.
The world fell into a profound, breathless silence.
That day
…we were outside.
She laughed—a soft, musical sound—and tugged my hand with both of hers.
"Come on! You promised we'd go to the Snow Sculpture Festival!"
Her smile was warm enough to melt the frost clinging to my hair.
And the last thing I ever saw in my old world
…was her crying.
Her voice breaking.
Her hands reaching for me.
Then darkness swallowing everything whole.
Reiss's eyes snapped open.
Cold was replaced by heat—the blistering, suffocating heat of a world annihilated. His bare chest rose and fell; the remnants of his clothes clung in scorched tatters. His head throbbed as memories crashed back.
He pushed himself up—slowly, painfully.
Then he saw it.
The land was gone.
Not ruined.
Not cracked.
Erased.
From horizon to smoking horizon, the ground was flattened into a bowl of molten stone, glowing red and orange like a still-cooling forge. The crater stretched so far that the curvature of the world dipped at the edges.
A single point of impact.
A single moment.
And everything—everything he'd built—had been swallowed by fire.
"My city…" His voice cracked.
"My people…"
His fingers dug into the scalding ground.
"My friends!"
His shout echoed through the burned wasteland, raw and broken, dissolving into a hoarse, trembling whisper.
"…damn it…"
The memory stabbed into him again—sharp, unwanted.
"Ultimate Skill acquired."
"What kind of skill is this?" he had asked.
Siri's calm tone echoed in his mind.
"This skill can reset the universe. Then, you may reshape it as you wish."
Reiss had scoffed then.
Reset the universe? Rebuild it?
"I'll never use something like that," he'd said.
I don't need it… not when I'm happy in this world already.
But now—
that world was gone.
He wished he had never said those words.
Now, in the present, he rose slowly—like a corpse trying to stand—his jaw trembling, tears burned dry.
He stepped into the air and lifted off, floating higher, higher, until the scorched land below shrank into nothing.
The battles still raged in distant cities, though the central war had already collapsed into chaos. Screams tore through the streets like jagged knives, mingling with the deafening booms of collapsing walls and the grinding screech of shattered stone. Iron dolls clashed with adventurers, their metal joints squealing as limbs twisted unnaturally. Sparks flew wherever blades met armor—or when stray electricity arced off misfired mechanical limbs.
In one city, a market district had become a death trap. Wooden stalls were splintered into kindling, barrels of oil burst into flames, and scorched corpses of puppets and beasts littered the cobblestones. Shops that once sold trinkets and bread now smoldered, smoke curling into the sky like black fingers clawing for escape.
From a toppled tower, a group of knights tried to hold a narrow bridge, but iron dolls swarmed from every direction. Bolts of fire and ice from desperate mages streaked through the air, missing their targets by inches, as spells ricocheted and collided in showers of light. The wind itself carried the screams, carrying them across ruined streets, scattering dust and rubble like ash from a wildfire.
In another city, the river had boiled from heat searing the stone along its banks. Adventurers leapt from one collapsed building to another, narrowly avoiding falling debris. A giant puppet, its armor cracked and glowing with molten seams, swung its hammer in a wide arc, flattening an entire row of shops in a single strike. Soldiers fell backward into the mud, their armor dented and smoking, only to rise moments later, driven by training, desperation, or sheer stubbornness.
Even in the forests and hills beyond the cities, the chaos did not stop. Wolves, magically twisted into puppets themselves, tore through villages. Magic firestorms licked treetops, reducing entire hillsides to ash. The sky was a patchwork of smoke and lightning, and the air smelled of burning metal, ozone, and fear.
Amid the chaos, small groups of survivors ran blindly through the streets, clutching wounded companions or scavenging what weapons they could find. Children's cries echoed across rooftops. The ground itself seemed alive—craters opened where spells had exploded, swallowing entire carts, wagons, or even entire walls. Birds fled, screaming, as dust and smoke swirled in giant vortices across the battlefield.
And through it all, the Iron Dolls advanced relentlessly. They didn't tire. They didn't falter. Soldiers, adventurers, and even rogue mages fell before them in waves, yet more appeared behind them—an endless tide of mechanized terror.
Reiss ascended until he pierced the cloud layer.
Until he hovered in the freezing darkness above the world.
Below him, the planet's night side stretched vast and silent—a wounded orb drifting through the void.
His voice trembled.
"I will fix this… all of it. I will rebuild everything. Better than before."
Reiss pressed his fist to his chest, feeling the weight of every life lost, every city burned, every scream he had failed to stop. Guilt and anger clawed at him, yet beneath it all, a cold clarity emerged: he could change everything.
Doubt whispered, but he silenced it. I will bear this weight. I will create a world worthy of those who fell.
He inhaled, chest heaving, and thrust his palm toward the dark planet below. Time seemed to pause, the void watching him. Every regret, every hope, every spark of rage condensed into that single motion.
The world trembled beneath his will.Skill: Turn—
And everything stopped.
Not the planet.
Not the stars.
Him.
A sharp chime split the void.
A panel flickered before him:
[SYSTEM OVERLOADED]
Reiss's eyes widened.
"No—don't—!"
The panel shattered into sparks.
All strength drained from his limbs.
His breath hitched.
And Reiss plummeted—helpless—falling like a dead star through the atmosphere.
Across the world—
The iron puppets froze mid-step.
Then collapsed like empty shells.
A young woman, breathing hard, touched one with her blade.
It didn't move.
"They're… really dead. Right?"
All over the world, the same thing happened.
Monsters vanished.
Cerberus dissolved like smoke.
Controlled adventurers collapsed, gasping as their minds returned.
On a castle rooftop drenched in daylight,
Elazar fell to his knees, Mira's unconscious metal body in his arms.
He shook, sobbing.
"Mira… Mira, please…"
Then something stranger happened.
Every system panel across every continent flashed at once:
[SYSTEM ERROR]
Skills failed.
Abilities vanished.
Levels were gone.
Panic spread instantly.
"What is this?!"
"My skills won't open!"
"Why is everything gone?!"
The war ended—not through victory, not through triumph—
—but through complete and utter collapse.
Nothing moved.
Nothing responded.
The world fell into a stunned, terrified silence.
The puppets were dead.
The threats were gone.
And somewhere in the wreckage of the sky,
Reiss Arden Valen fell like a broken star toward the world he had tried so desperately to save.
"Hmm… so all skills are gone?"
A large, burly knight stood on the castle porch, his armor scorched and battered, overlooking the city that had once thrived. Smoke and ash choked the horizon, buildings reduced to jagged skeletons of stone and metal. Streets glowed red from molten rivers where fire had consumed everything in its path. His voice, rough with disbelief, barely carried over the dying echoes of the city. "Finally… martial arts and swordsmanship… finally, it all comes down to us."
But before he could take another step, every system panel in the world flickered simultaneously, bathing the city—and the scarred lands beyond—in a pale, unnatural light. Screens on walls, floating panels, and magical conduits all activated at once. Every living—and formerly living—soul turned to them, eyes wide, hearts hammering.
A voice rang out from the panels, deep, echoing, ethereal, as if it came from the very bones of the planet.
"O all souls in this world… peace be upon you."
Silence fell like a suffocating weight. Soldiers froze mid-step, adventurers lowered their shattered weapons, and monsters paused in the ruin of their hunting grounds. Even the wind seemed to halt, carrying only the acrid scent of ash and blood.
"Your world has been too tainted by souls… in places where they should not belong."
The voice lingered, slow, deliberate, each word pressing upon the hearts of those who listened. Across the remnants of the world, eyes darted nervously between panels, seeking meaning, seeking salvation—but finding none.
"Our noble duty is to return souls to their rightful place."
A tremor ran through the ground, small at first, then rolling outward like a drumbeat of doom. Trees snapped, towers groaned, and cracked earth swallowed streets whole.
"May God have mercy on your souls."
Then came the final, chilling declaration:
"Therefore… we will reset this world. Please… enjoy the process."
The panels closed. Darkness and quiet consumed the land for a brief, terrifying heartbeat. And then—light.
The night sky cracked open, bleeding a deep, searing crimson that swallowed the stars. The air shimmered with heat, a rising infernal sun scorching the clouds into molten streaks. From the blackened void, a meteor the size of continents tore through the heavens, trailing fire and lightning like a vengeful god incarnate. Its approach rattled the bones of the world itself.
Below, people froze. Knees buckled, voices caught in throats. Some pressed trembling hands together, whispering prayers that scattered into the wind. Others screamed—sharp, desperate, and utterly meaningless against the roar of destiny. Streets erupted into chaos, forests convulsed under falling branches, mountains shuddered and crumbled like sandcastles, rivers boiled, and animals scattered in panicked flight. Nothing remained untouched. Nothing remained safe.
The impact arrived without mercy. A shockwave rolled outward, flattening plains, shattering cliffs, and igniting cities into rivers of fire. Mountains fractured into jagged teeth, oceans hissed and boiled, and the ground itself split as if screaming beneath the meteor's fury. Stones tore into the sky, molten fountains leaping into the crimson horizon. Winds howled like the world's lament, carrying ash and dust that smothered everything in a choking haze.
Every life—human, monster, adventurer, and beast—was ripped from the earth. Voices that had shouted, laughed, and cried vanished into the roar of annihilation. The heartbeat of the planet stuttered, then stilled, leaving only silence.
In the void that followed, the echoes of existence trembled faintly, fragile as smoke in a hurricane. Somewhere deep in that emptiness, the memory of life lingered—a ghostly promise that the world would awaken again. Slowly, painfully, the ashes would shift, the soil would breathe, and the first light of a new dawn would pierce the darkness.
But those who had lived—the fighters, the lovers, the friends, the betrayed, the triumphant—were gone. Their joys, their cries, their suffering, and their victories were erased, swallowed by the first heartbeat of a world beginning anew, a world that would remember none of them.