In the shattered gardens of Sol Atrium, a heavy silence fell. Blood soaked the once-pristine white marble. The surviving Candidates of the God of Light knelt in humiliation before an unknown figure — their pride crushed.
Behind him, Thomas, Baek Mu-sang, and Seraphion stood like silent sentinels.
Lucian, the true storm, stepped forward amidst the ruins. His coat fluttered with the broken winds, his presence alone overshadowing the dying light around him.
The silver armor of Sera was shattered in places, her divine Sacred Flame Sword split in two — the symbol of her might now nothing more than broken debris.
Lucian gazed at her casually, almost amused. He brushed a strand of blood-matted hair from her forehead with the back of his hand and said, voice low and mocking:
"Shall we conclude our little 'friendship' meeting, then?"
Sera glared at him, a feral beast's rage flashing in her bloodshot eyes.
"Who… who are you?! Do you even comprehend the consequences of your actions?!" she hissed.
Caelthuron gritted his teeth and barked:
"Soon they will come. Your evil will be extinguished!"
Lucian smiled — a slow, dangerous smile.
He extended his hand and caught Sera by the throat in a single, effortless motion. Her feet kicked helplessly as he slowly lifted her off the ground.
He was a heartbeat away from snapping her neck when a golden portal tore open in the skies, splitting the fabric of reality itself.
From the swirling light stepped a figure — statuesque, immaculate.
Virelion emerged, porcelain skin aglow, golden sigils spiraling along his limbs. His burnished silver hair shimmered like starlight, fragments of floating white armor orbiting him like silent sentries. His golden eyes burned with merciless judgment.
The Luminary Arbiter, Blade of Final Judgement — a being who would annihilate anything that disrupted divine order.
He looked at the devastation around him with cold disgust.
"What an ungrateful sight to witness," Virelion said, his voice echoing like a death knell.
From the rift stepped another presence — soft yet chilling.
Saelith, an elegant vision of haunting beauty, descended. Her flowing robes of violet and silver danced with ghostly grace, her platinum hair adorned with delicate glass ornaments that refracted the fading light.
She gripped a staff of crystallized light, its frozen vines pulsing faintly. Her indigo eyes, ancient and sorrowful, locked onto Lucian.
The Duskborn Saint, Maiden of Vanished Tomorrows.
Her voice cut through the broken skies:
"Put her down, you lowly bastard."
Lucian tightened his grip around Sera's throat, his expression a picture of casual cruelty.
"Such sharp words from such a lovely creature," he mused. His crimson eyes glittered dangerously.
"But I fear you don't fully grasp the situation you've entered."
Virelion's voice rang out, sharp and authoritative:
"Any further violence will only make matters worse for you."
Lucian's smirk deepened. Without hesitation, he crushed Sera's neck, snapping it like a twig, and tossed her crumpled body aside as if discarding a broken toy.
He stared at Virelion, unblinking.
"What could possibly be worse than this?" he whispered, voice dripping with malice.
Saelith raised her staff high, her sorrow transforming into wrath.
"Then by the authority of the Duskborn Saint, I hereby declare you a traitor to the Light!"
The heavens trembled.
From beyond the torn skies, an army of trillions — radiant, divine, unstoppable — charged toward Lucian, their roars shaking the stars themselves.
Caelthuron, battered but defiant, gasped:
"It's over… finally over."
Yet Isolde, still watching Lucian, felt a cold dread seep into her bones.
"But… why is he walking forward? Why does he look so calm…?" she whispered.
Lucian stepped forward with unhurried grace, completely unfazed by the apocalyptic army rushing toward him.
With a flick of his hand, a throne — sculpted entirely from black crystal and swirling shadows — rose from the broken ground.
He sat upon it lazily, one leg draped over the other, resting his chin lightly on his knuckles.
A sovereign before the end of the world.
A king before a million armies.
And as he gazed at the incoming storm, his smirk widened — as if the chaos was merely entertainment for him.
Then the true horror descended.
The darkness of space tore wider, revealing an unfathomable force.
A new army — trillions and trillions strong — descended like locusts from the void.
They wore obsidian armor streaked with crimson runes, and their red demonic eyes burned brighter than any divine light. Their mere presence swallowed the heavens.
Leading them was a figure of terrible majesty.
His armor gleamed blood-black under the shattered sky. His weapon — a scythe forged of black and crimson artifact material — pulsed with the hunger of a thousand lost worlds.
His name reverberated like a death knell:
Kazeroth, the Blood Eclipse.
Without hesitation, Kazeroth materialized beside Saelith.
Before her eyes could even register his arrival, shhhk — a horizontal swing of his scythe severed her head cleanly from her shoulders.
It was done so smoothly, so illogically, that her soul barely had time to understand death before vanishing.
Her body toppled silently, a pitiful end for a saint who once wept for lost worlds.
Kazeroth didn't spare her a glance.
With predatory grace, the army of Darkness fell upon the Light.
Generals, candidates, soldiers — obliterated.
Their golden relics shattered. Their prayers silenced.
The divine banners of Light were trampled into the blood-soaked ground.
In less than an hour, the once-glorious Celestial Haven was nothing more than a desolate fortress of darkness.
At the center of it all, Lucian sat casually upon his throne, surveying the carnage like an artist admiring his masterpiece.
At last, Kazeroth, drenched in the blood of gods, strode forward and knelt before him.
His head bowed so low that the bloodied ground cracked beneath his forehead.
Then, he spoke. Not loudly — but with a resonance that seemed to slice through existence itself.
"Hail... Demon God of Darkness."
The moment the title left Kazeroth's lips, a violent silence devoured the world.
It was not mere quiet — it was the muting of reality itself, as if even sound dared not exist in the presence of that name.
The very stones of Sol Atrium quivered.
The air itself seemed to bleed shadows.
Far across the battlefield, the survivors — Light's proud soldiers, divine beasts, winged titans — all froze, terror carving itself into their very souls.
Even the last three Candidates of Light — Caelthuron, Isolde, and Valtar — beings born in radiance and trained for millennia —
— staggered backward, faces drained of all color.
They did not fully understand.
They had not been there when the world burned under the God of Darkness.
But all gods knew the tales.
Etched in sacred texts.
Whispered in trembling prayers.
Taught to children of light as warnings, not myths.
— Beware the God of Darkness.
— Beware the One who devours the Heavens.
— Beware the Sovereign whom even the Suns dare not gaze upon.
It was said that when the original God of Darkness rose, the celestial hierarchies cracked.
It was said that even Time wept.
Now, the echo of that terror returned — not as rumor, not as legend — but as reality.
The Light Soldiers, countless in number, dropped their weapons without thought.
Some fled, others collapsed into gibbering madness, clutching at their chests as unseen nightmares squeezed their hearts.
The few who dared lift their gazes toward the Demon God of Darkness found only infinite scorn reflected back at them —
— and they understood, in that one cursed instant, that they were already dead.
The surface beneath the throne groaned and split, black flames pouring from the wounds in the world.
Even the sun that hung above Sol Atrium faltered, its radiance dimming as if the star itself feared to shine before him.
The Demon God of Darkness sat casually, crimson eyes half-closed, a slight, disdainful smile tugging at his lips —
— as if this collapse of everything they knew was nothing more than an expected inevitability.
Kazeroth remained kneeling, voice rising once again:
"We serve you, Great One."
"We are but fragments — and still, even these fragments can unmake worlds at your whim."
The Five Void Guardians slammed their massive hands onto the ground in unified submission, creating tsunamis of dark energy that tore through the ruins.
The Draconic Vanguard, from the eldest black wyrm to the smallest spawn of void, roared in worship — a sound that peeled back the clouds and silenced distant stars.
The Guardians' combined roar shook not just Sol Atrium — it rippled into the fabric of the nearby heavens, causing distant universes to tremble without knowing why.
Kazeroth lifted his head just slightly, a glint of savage joy burning in his red-irised eyes.
"And this..."
"This is but one percent."
The Demon God of Darkness let out a soft, cruel laugh — the kind of sound that could split a soul from its body.
Then he leaned back on his throne, one leg lazily crossing over the other, as if he were merely surveying a stage prepared for grander atrocities.
A single thought seemed to pass through the minds of the surviving gods and soldiers —
— a thought so primal, so deep, that no prayer could save them now:
The True Night... has returned.
And this time,
there would be no dawn.