The sky burned crimson, as if fire from another realm had swallowed the land whole. The stench of death was thick, blending with the dust and ash carried by the wind, seeping into every crevice of a city that was once grand. This was no mere battlefield—this was the graveyard of gods, a place where life and death chased each other relentlessly. There were no heroes here, only those who had been shattered in a war with no end.


    An old man stood amidst the ruins. His once-glistening armor was now soaked in blood—some his own, most belonging to the countless dead. Despite his age, his sharp eyes remained unwavering, piercing through the darkness that cloaked the world. A bitter smile curled upon his lips as he exhaled a heavy sigh.


    Footsteps echoed behind him, faint but growing closer, signaling the arrival of someone who should have long been here.


    "You''re late," the old man said without turning, his voice heavy, trembling like the air thick with tension.


    Silence followed. There was no more battle, no more struggle. Only a stillness so deep it clawed at the soul.


    The old man stood frozen for a moment—then, he laughed. A hollow sound, bitter and broken. A sob escaped between the laughter, raw and unrestrained.


    "What have we done wrong?" his voice cracked, reverberating through the ruins, challenging a world that no longer cared. "Were these lives truly worth nothing?"


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    Blood seeped through the cracks of his armor, dripping one by one onto the dust-laden ground, each droplet a silent witness to the devastation around him. His left hand was gone, reduced to a mangled mess of flesh and bone, incapable of grasping anything ever again. His right hand, once strong, still clutched the shattered body of a child—lifeless, cold. Only silence bore witness to the grief hidden within that grip.


    Not far from them, a severed head lay motionless, its vacant eyes gazing at the sky, its mouth still stuffed with bread—as if death had claimed it mid-bite. No one had come to save them. Not here.


    The old man lifted his gaze to the heavens, where dark clouds slowly swallowed the crimson sky. It was as if the sky itself declared that hope no longer existed. His once-clear vision blurred, the world beginning to spin and drift away from him. The ground trembled—not from an earthquake, but from a force far beyond mortal comprehension.


    From the distance, a deafening roar erupted—a chorus of half a million voices rising in unison, declaring loyalty to a god who had long been abandoned by fate.


    "Glory to the God Aionis!"


    The words echoed, forced into existence like a prayer that had lost its meaning. But was Aionis still there to hear them?


    The old man closed his eyes, letting the filthy, dust-filled wind caress his weathered face. Perhaps this was a sign that the world had already ended. Perhaps nothing remained to be salvaged, no future left to fight for.


    Among the ruins of a broken world, amidst suffering that defied words, only one question remained, lingering in the emptiness:


    What is left to do when the world as we know it has ended? Is there still anything worth fighting for, or is all that remains nothing but decay and solitude?’