The world was dying.
He knew it before he opened his eyes.
Before thought took shape, before breath stirred his lips, the truth bled into him — thick, heavy, undeniable.
A world was collapsing. The gods who had built it lay broken and silent, scattered across a battlefield of ash and shattered stars.
And he was the last thing it would ever birth.
Slowly, he rose from the blackened soil, steam hissing from his skin like whispers from the grave.
There was no warmth in this place. No sun to guide him.
Only the endless murk of a sky too tired to bleed.
The corpses of titans surrounded him.
Mountains of dead divinity, armor cracked, wings torn, halos shattered at their feet.
The old gods had waged their final war — and they had all lost.
All… but him.
He stood naked beneath the forgotten heavens, a man formed of shadows and ancient, vengeful light.
His blood sang of conquest. His bones ached with untold power.
He knew nothing of kindness.
He had no concept of mercy.
Only one word carved itself into his soul like a brand:
Rule.
A flicker of thought.
A gesture of will.
And the corpses around him bled power — the last remnants of divine strength flowing into him like rivers into a black sea.
He drank deeply.
He grew.
And when the first whispers of the world felt him stir — when the few still living gasped in fear and awe —
he smiled.
Not a kind smile.
Not a human one.
A king's smile.
A monster's smile.
And somewhere deep within the broken, bleeding world,
the first throne — abandoned and rusted — shuddered to life once more.
Waiting.
Waiting for its true master to come.