For centuries, the world thrived in harmony—a fragile miracle.
Gods and mortals dined side by side. Demons bartered with elves. Monsters wandered freely, unchained by fear or prejudice. There were no walls, no kings claiming divine right. Power flowed like a shared river—endless, abundant, and free to all.
But peace, no matter how radiant, is always temporary.
The gods began to change.
Their immortality, once a quiet burden, started to feel like proof of dominion. They looked upon the world—not as caretakers, but as rightful rulers. Whispers spread across the divine halls. Whispers that grew teeth.
"This world was never meant to be shared."
"It is ours by right."
Not all gods agreed. Some still walked among mortals, still remembered humility. But their pleas were drowned out by rising arrogance and the deafening promise of control.
The demons resisted first.
They had always kept to the shadows—not out of malice, but out of caution. They never sought war. Never attacked without reason. But the gods—eager to ignite conflict—cast the first stone. A goddess, draped in light but driven by fear, branded the demons as enemies of peace.
She forced their hand.
Cornered and vilified, the demons emerged from the darkness. Not to conquer, but to survive. They marched toward human lands—not to destroy, but to reveal the truth: that the gods had started this war, not them.
But the gods twisted the story.
When the demons reached the cities, the gods struck. Blades of divine light rained down from the sky.
And in the chaos, it was the humans—innocent, confused, unarmed—who suffered the most.
Caught between false salvation and misunderstood monsters, they were the first to fall. Not to demon claws, but to divine wrath.
Once allies in the wars of old, they had stood shoulder to shoulder with gods. But they would not kneel. Not to old friends drunk on power.
So the gods summoned their angels—beings of searing light, forged not to guide, but to conquer. Blades of judgment in hand, they descended.
The demons answered with their own legends: the Demon Lords—beings born in abyssal fire, molded by war, and unmatched in fury. Titans of chaos who would not fall quietly.
The heavens cracked. The world burned.
What had been a song of unity became a cacophony of war.
Monsters, once silent witnesses, took sides or carved their own blood-soaked territories. Elves vanished into ancient forests. Dwarves sealed their mountain halls. Humanity fractured—some prayed beneath golden temples, others pledged themselves to darkness, desperate for freedom.
Kingdoms fell. Betrayals bloomed. The world became a battleground of shattered ideals.
And in the ruins of that endless war, one man stood alone.
Asron.
The man with the cursed blade—Pasifer.
It gleamed in his hand, humming with forgotten voices. The third most powerful weapon ever forged, they said. A sword not made to protect, but to end.
And end, it did.
Gods, demons, monsters, mortals—it made no difference. Pasifer cut through them all.
On this battlefield, one of many, Asron moved like a ghost wrapped in fury. His armor was cracked, soaked in blood—some his, most not. His breath came ragged, each movement slower than the last. Still, he fought. Still, he killed.
Until his body gave out.
His knees hit the ground. His blade slipped from his grasp.
He collapsed onto a mound of corpses—angels with broken wings, demons twisted in agony, men and women whose eyes still stared at nothing.
Smoke coiled around him. The stench of blood, burning flesh, and sulfur choked the air.
He lay still.
For a moment, he could almost pretend it was over.
Pasifer gleamed beside him. Its metal surface reflected a face he barely recognized. Haunted eyes. Skin stained with ash and blood. Not a warrior. Not a hero.
Just a man cursed with too much power and no choice.
His fingers found the hilt again. It pulsed at his touch.
Alive.
"Is this what peace costs?" he muttered.
The grip bit into his palm as he clenched it. Blood trickled down, warm and steady. "I've killed so many. Gods. Friends. Strangers. I can't even remember some of their faces."
He looked up.
Around him, the battle raged on.
His comrades—the last few who still believed in something greater—fought desperately. Their blades clashed against betrayers. Their cries echoed through the smoke, desperate but unwavering.
They were tired. All of them were. But they hadn't given up.
Not yet.
Ahead, gods fought Demon Lords in cataclysmic duels. Spells shattered the sky. Mountains split. Angels dove from the clouds like comets, wings aflame, blades screaming through the wind.
Below, monsters tore through human lines. Mortals screamed, bled, and vanished beneath claw and fang.
This wasn't a battle.
This was the world ending. Again.
Asron forced himself to his feet. His body howled in protest, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
"I never wanted this," he whispered. "Not the sword. Not the burden. I didn't ask to be anyone's savior."
He thought of the first time he touched Pasifer. How light it had felt then—how full of hope he had been.
He thought of the people who had followed him.
And the ones who hadn't made it this far.
Their names burned in his mind. Their faces. Their last words.
"I didn't want to be a monster," he said, louder now. "But maybe that's what it takes to end this."
The blade pulsed in answer. A heartbeat of power, dark and resolute.
Pasifer didn't judge. It never had. It simply obeyed.
"If this is my curse," Asron said, voice rising, "then I'll carry it to the end."
He turned toward the chaos—toward gods and devils, angels and monsters. The battlefield was a storm of fury and fire.
Monsters tore through human ranks, yet still, some humans stood their ground. Bloodied, broken—but unyielding.
Asron watched them, awed. "How? These people had no divine strength. No abyssal magic. And yet—they fought. Not with power. But with will."
A raw, burning will that defied fate itself.
A whisper echoed in his mind:
"This… is what I need. Not strength. Not vengeance. Just enough will to reach the end."
One man against the end of the world.
He raised Pasifer. The blade shimmered, alive with purpose, answering his call.
Asron murmured, "There's still a path... hidden in the ashes."
And so, he marched forward—into the fire, into the storm, into the heart of the reckoning.
Not to reclaim what was lost.
Not to avenge what was broken.
But to forge something new.
Something the gods could never control.