The black sky saw everything. It witnessed the time of everlasting peace when the gods still walked with man. Life flourished, there was no suffering, only joy, and happiness.

  Its eyes never blinked, even when one night, that blissful dream turned into a nightmare. One god raised his sword upon the world, shouting, "There could be only one god, one throne." He, Ultima Adam, The God of Order, had declared war against all gods.

  Within weeks, Adam’s conquests swept the earth like a storm, turning the lush green lands into charred husks. The sky bled crimson, and the dying cries became a hymn to his relentless march. He shattered a thousand years of peace and prosperity, leaving only horror and destruction.

  The elder gods, those ancient beings who had seen the birth of stars and the first faltering steps of humanity, sought to resist him. They gathered in a council, wishing to save the world and all living beings. Yet, in the end, they were nothing but fools.

  On the night of Gran Sabbath, when all the elders gathered to discuss their plan, one by one, they fell to the ground, dead. By the time the others realized what had happened, it was too late. The nameless one stood over their corpses, laughing over their foolishness.

  This was no god. He was an impostor, a cunning mortal who had donned the guise of divinity. A man of smoke and mirrors, deceit and audacity. He had walked among the gods, dined with them, whispered in their ears, and when they let their guard down, he poisoned and killed them in one swoop.

  He called himself The Savage Lord, the most cunning of mortals.

  The Savage Lord ascended to his stolen throne, ruling his domains with an iron fist wrapped in barbed wire. He did not seek peace, nor did he crave the adoration of mortals. His vision was cruel and cold, the destruction of the world.

  The Savage Lord unearthed forbidden artifacts from a time when men dared to rival gods. With these, he unleashed horrors upon the world: plagues that twisted flesh and mind, birthing the Anima—monstrous beings that devoured life itself. Entire cities were consumed in their wake, leaving behind nothing but silence and smoldering ruins.

  In this selfish war, there could be no victor. But why did the mighty gods continue to fight? Why did they ignore the cries and pleas of their suffering subjects?

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  Or perhaps they are simply bored with their unchanging realm?

  The only hope lay not in gods nor mortals but in the hands of The Pathfinder. These were not heroes by choice but cursed souls—blessed by The Earth with the gift of immortality, though at a terrible price. Each time they fell, they rose again, their shattered bodies made whole, their strength and wit sharpened by the agony of countless deaths. But their memories were the price. With every rebirth, fragments of their past lives were stripped away, until only the present remained.

  Many could not bear the weight of it. Stripped of identity, they became hollow beings. Some roamed the world in an endless haze of confusion, while others gave in to bloodlust, their minds consumed by the madness of eternity. Yet, among the broken and the damned, there was one—a fool, perhaps—who journeyed further than any other.

  She walked alone, her armor in tatters, her body battered by battles that would have killed lesser beings a thousand times over. Across her flesh burned vivid tattoos, flaming dragons that writhed with a life of their own, their power a gift—or perhaps a curse—left by The Earth itself. In her hands was a sword the color of spilled blood, a weapon she took after killing its previous owner, The Savage Lord.

  They called her many names—The Crimson Wraith, The Bloodbearer, The Last Pathfinder—but to herself, she was nameless. Her only memory, the only thing that tethered her to the world, was a name whispered in her fleeting dreams: Cleo.

  The time came when she reached Ultima Adam himself. The battlefield was the throne to the heavens, where Adam would ascend to become one and true god. Adam stood tall, his presence like a cold sun, his spear glowing with unearthly light. The woman faced him, alone.

  Their battle shook the cosmos. Each swing of her sword cleaved through the air like a tempest, and each strike of his spear sent shockwaves to the clouds. She fought with ferocity, her strength unmatched, her tattoos burning brighter with every blow. For a moment, it seemed the tides might turn. For a moment, the gods themselves paused to watch.

  However, fate was a cruel mistress.

  Adam's spear found its mark. It pierced her heart, and with it, the blessing of The Pathfinder was stripped from her body. The tattoos dimmed and faded, her once-indomitable strength draining from her limbs. She fell to her knees, blood pouring from her wound, pooling beneath her. Her crimson sword slipped from her grasp.

  Yet, even as life ebbed from her, she reached out—a hand bloodied and trembling, grasping at the stairs that Adam now climbed, ascending to complete his mission.

  “Almost…” she whispered, her voice a fragile breath in the void. Her fingers clawed at the ground, inching forward as her vision blurred.

  "I need.... more power... To become the true god... to save Cleo."

  Her body stilled. The fiery dragons that had once danced across her skin flickered one last time and vanished.

  "Mother Earth... please grant me... one more chance..."

  Cold and defeated, the light in her eyes finally disappeared.