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Karma woke to the quiet hum of his coffee machine, the bitter aroma filling the small, dim apartment. His reflection stared back at him from the window, a man lost in thought, caught in the monotony of his life. Black hair tousled from sleep, eyes dull with exhaustion. He was 23, but felt far older. At 5'8", his body was well-defined, an aesthetic frame shaped by years of quiet dissatisfaction rather than the pursuit of strength. His muscles were a result of random workouts, a constant attempt to fill the void of purpose that gnawed at him. He wasn't unhappy, but he wasn't alive either.
Karma had learned to go through the motions. Wake up, drink coffee, get to work, repeat. Every day the same, one indistinguishable from the next. He felt like a ghost, walking through life but never truly living. His body moved on autopilot, his mind lost in the shadows of his own uncertainty.
"Am I still dreaming?" Karma mumbled under his breath, the words barely forming before he silenced them with a grim chuckle. The events of the past—Muse, Araphé, the godslayer's power—felt like something out of a fevered dream. The battle, the pain, the overwhelming weight of death and divine power—it all seemed distant now, as if he had been a mere spectator in his own mind.
But something was different.
His instincts had shifted. They were clearer now, more precise. Fight. Execute. Survive.
His mind raced, the aftereffects of the battle with Araphé still lingering. His power, like a mark etched into his being, wasn't a fleeting thing. It had imprinted on him, in the core of his existence, a part of him that could never be shaken off. The power of Crime and Punishment—the Executioner's Blade—was with him, part of him, and it was undeniable. Every cell in his body seemed to hum with its presence.
The world outside his window suddenly didn't seem so indifferent. News broadcasts blared, reporting on the unimaginable: giants falling from the sky. Those were the old gods, once revered, now dead and scattered across the mortal plane. Each fall marked the end of an era. And for Karma, it signaled the beginning of something else—a reckoning.
As the weight of reality settled in, a strange symbol appeared before him, glowing faintly on the air. It was a floating status bar, a timer ticking down with an unnerving precision. The countdown read: 365 days, 24 hours—and then, a message pinged into his view:
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"Survive the undead apocalypse."
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Karma's eyes widened as the world seemed to shift around him. The timer flickered, showing the ominous passage of time, and he could feel the blood drain from his face. Suddenly, there was no more time to question the dream-like haze. The undead, shadows in the light of noon, began to spawn—monstrous forms, twisted figures, reanimated horrors crawling out from the earth.
Karma trembled, heart racing as his hand instinctively reached for the blade of power imprinted into his soul. His fingers curled around the air, imagining the Executioner's Blade, and there it was—the sensation of weight, of purpose. The divine blade manifested with a flash, its ethereal glow casting shadows around him.
Was this his calling? Was this the fight he was meant to live for?
His instincts flared again, sharper this time. Fight. Execute. Survive.
Karma steadied his breath, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something stir in his chest. He was no longer just existing—he was alive.
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