At the edge of existence, where light and shadow clash in eternal struggle, an unimaginable force had gathered—legions of Angels with blazing halos, Demons wreathed in searing flame, Dragons whose wings blotted out the sky, and warriors of countless forgotten races, all united in a single, unbreakable formation.
Their eyes burned with fury, their weapons thirsted for blood, and their collective might shook the very earth beneath them.
Before them, rising from the heart of an endless blizzard, stood the obsidian fortress—a lone bastion of defiance atop the frozen mountain.
"ATTACK!"
The war cry thundered across the battlefield, a sound that could have shattered the heavens themselves.
Yet, the castle remained eerily serene, untouched by fear, its towering spires piercing the storm like the claws of a slumbering god.
Upon its walls stood its defenders—soldiers clad in darkness, their black-and-crimson wings spread like banners of death.
They gazed upon the approaching horde with chilling indifference, as if the very concept of fear had been carved from their souls.
Before the throne knelt three figures, their forms shrouded in flowing black, eighteen wings—black as midnight, edged in crimson—spread behind them like a grotesque halo. The Seraphs of Death bowed their heads in unison, awaiting their master's command.
The Eternal Reaper watched them with bored, half-lidded eyes, his fingers drumming a slow, indifferent rhythm against the throne's armrest.
"Let them come."
"Your will be done, Eternal Reaper."
And so, the war began.
Hundreds fell in the first breath.
Thousands perished by the second.
Within the castle's shattered halls, angels—once radiant, now broken—crumpled one by one, their bodies dissolving into nothingness, as though erased from existence itself.
The invaders fared no better. Their fallen were reduced to ash, pyres of their own making devouring friend and foe alike, leaving no trace behind.
When the silence finally settled, only four remained: the three Seraphs of Death, their wings torn, their blood staining the scorched earth—and the Eternal Reaper, still seated upon his throne, untouched, unmoved, as if the carnage had been nothing more than a fleeting distraction.
Then, a woman draped in a majestic emerald gown—radiant and regal—walked through the throne hall, her gaze locked onto the figure seated upon the throne with cold disdain.
The Seraphs of Death tensed, awaiting their master's command, but the Eternal Reaper remained lounging lazily, unmoved.
"How long will you sit idle, watching your people perish, O Great Blodmire?"
The God of Death tilted his head, his lips curling in amusement as he met the furious gaze of the woman before him.
"Lifan..." His voice was a velvet whisper, laced with cruel mirth. "They will exist forever through me. Their deaths are the highest honor they could attain."
Lifan—Nature's Deity, the Goddess of Life—clenched her fists, her emerald eyes burning with disgust. She had done the impossible: united Angels and Demons, rallied entire realms to war, all to challenge Death itself... yet Blodmire had not even deigned to rise from his throne.
"Then... give me your Essence," she demanded, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury. "Let me end this pointless war."
Blodmire smirked.
"Are you certain?"
With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his hand—and the air itself darkened as a swirling orb of crimson energy coalesced above his palm, pulsing like a dying star.
"Then take it."
But before Lifan could seize the Essence of Death, betrayal erupted.
The Demons—their eyes alight with sudden bloodlust—turned on their Angelic allies, tearing into them with savage glee.
"Stop Lifan!"
"Open the Abyss!"
The Abyssal Demon Gods roared, their clawed hands rending the fabric of reality as a monstrous portal yawned open, its depths writhing with unseen horrors.
Blodmire, still lounging upon his obsidian throne, watched the carnage unfold with dark amusement. Bloodshed, madness, endless slaughter—these were the only spectacles that stirred his ancient, withered heart.
And with every fallen warrior, his power grew.
Corpses twitched, then rose—Angels and Demons alike, their eyes now hollow voids, their bodies puppets to Death's will. They lunged back into battle, an eternal cycle of slaughter and resurrection.
With a mere thought, he could have commanded them to turn their blades upon the Gods themselves.
But he didn't.
He never would.
Because Blodmire was not a conqueror.
He was an observer—a silent, merciless watcher who reveled in the dance of Life and Death.
And yet...
Deep within the abyss of his soul, something foreign stirred.
Envy.
For he, the God of Death, would never know what it meant to truly live... or to die.
The Abyssal Demon God, its maw stretched in a grotesque grin, began pushing the portal toward Blodmire's throne.
Yet the God of Death made no move to resist.
He only smiled.
Then, slowly, he turned to his three Seraphs—the Seraph of Blood, the Seraph of the Dead, and the Seraph of Souls—who knelt before him, their loyalty unshaken by the chaos.
"Go," he murmured, his voice like the sigh of a dying world. "And let me see the world through your eyes."
The Seraphs bowed, their gazes unwavering. They understood the weight of Death's Essence—for they each bore a fragment of it within their own shattered souls.
But only Blodmire, who had endured since time's first breath, could wield its full might...
...and remain sane.
"As you command, Eternal Reaper."
Blodmire's smile lingered as the portal's maw engulfed him.
One final glance at the warring gods, at the throne room drenched in divine blood—
And then, with a whisper of finality...
He—and his throne—vanished.