The world howled.
Ice and snow stretched endlessly in every direction, the sky a churning, bloodless gray. The wind wasn't just cold—it was ancient. Heavy. It clawed through cloth and bone alike, carrying the scent of ruin and silence.
A figure stood alone atop a jagged hill.
His face was hidden behind a grim, birdlike mask. His armor was blackened, ancient, stitched with runes and clawed scars. Twin scythes—each nearly as tall as he was—hung across his back, humming with a low, vicious hunger. Shadows pooled at his feet, whispering like old ghosts.
Nico di Angelo blinked beneath the mask, steadying himself.
He wasn't himself. Not entirely. His hands were gauntleted, massive. His body was stronger, heavier, sharper. He could feel it — Death wasn't just a name here. It was a fact.
He flexed his fingers experimentally. Power coiled beneath his skin, wild and waiting.
Somewhere distant, a horse whinnied — not a normal sound, but something deeper. Raw. Summoned by will alone, a great skeletal steed burst from the ether, hooves pounding the frozen ground.
Despair.
Nico didn't know how he knew the name. He just did. Like it had always been etched into him.
He climbed into the saddle without hesitation. A small thrill buzzed through him—the rush of control, of certainty.
The world wasn't just a landscape. It was a battleground.
Something shifted in the distance. The air thickened. A rumble quaked through the frozen soil as the first enemies emerged — grotesque creatures, twisted by corruption, dragging themselves across the ice with broken limbs and gnarled claws.
Corrupted Constructs.
Their hollow eyes locked onto him, hungry.
Nico exhaled slowly. There was no fear. Just a cold, methodical certainty.
With a flex of thought, the twin scythes unfurled into his hands, glinting wickedly in the low light.
The first Construct lunged.
Nico moved like a shadow given form. His body reacted before his mind caught up — weaving between attacks, twin blades flashing in arcs of pure annihilation. He slashed low, severing legs, spun high, cleaving skulls. Every motion was brutal, efficient. Death wasn't about rage. It wasn't about hate.
It was inevitability.
Another monster fell. Then another.
Soon the icy ground was littered with shattered remains. Nico wiped the scythes clean in a single motion, and Despair trotted back to his side like an obedient ghost.
There were no cheers. No triumphant music. Just the endless wind and the crunch of his boots against ancient ice.
The journey had only begun.
Somewhere beyond the endless wastes, he could feel a pull—a presence. Something massive. Primeval. The Tree of Life itself, perhaps. His path was written not in prophecy, but in blood.
Nico glanced toward the distant horizon, where ruined towers scraped the stormy sky.
He urged Despair forward, scythes gleaming at his sides.
There would be no mercy.
Not for this world.
Not for himself.
And somewhere, far beyond the veil, a certain mischievous god of games chuckled softly, watching the pieces move across the board.