Chapter 13: Black Angel and High Rise Devil

  The night was silent, the moonlight casting long, jagged shadows across the sprawling city. The mansion of the Heidan family stood like an ancient monument to wealth and power, completely unaware of the bloodshed that was about to unfold. Inside, the family slept, the walls of their fortress meant to protect them now nothing more than a mockery of safety. For Black Angel and High Rise Devil, this was another conquest—another opportunity to dismantle the world’s illusion of control.

  They had long since forsaken the notion of mercy or justice. Their own brand of twisted righteousness guided them, and in the quiet of the night, they moved like ghosts—predators stalking their prey.

  Afton Heidan, the patriarch of the family, had been running a late-night business meeting, and his wife, Marina, waited anxiously for his return. She sat in the lavish, velvet-lined chairs of the mansion’s living room, her thoughts consumed by the lingering fear that had become her constant companion. She had been hearing things, noises she couldn't quite explain, but before she could gather her thoughts, it was too late.

  The door to her bedroom burst open with such force that the frame cracked, and Black Angel’s shadow filled the doorway. Marina froze, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes met his, knowing in an instant that there was no escape. She opened her mouth to scream, but before the sound could escape, Black Angel was upon her, his large, dark hand closing around her throat in a vice-like grip. The strength in his fingers was crushing—impossibly powerful.

  She struggled in vain, clawing at his hand, but his grip only tightened. His eyes, cold and calculating, stared down at her, emotionless as he squeezed the life from her. Her veins began to pop as her blood supply was cut off, her face turning an unnatural shade of purple. Marina’s body jerked, her muscles spasming in a final, futile attempt for escape. The light in her eyes dimmed, and within seconds, she was gone.

  Black Angel let her body fall to the floor like a ragdoll, leaving her lying in a pool of her own blood. He didn’t spare her a second glance. His job was done.

  Meanwhile, upstairs, Matthew Heidan, the eldest son, had been roused by the sounds of his mother’s death. He grabbed the nearest weapon—a hunting knife he kept by his bedside—and rushed into the hallway. His pulse quickened, his mind racing to understand what was happening. He wasn’t a coward, not like his father had been. He was ready to protect his family, even if it meant giving his life.

  But the High Rise Devil was already there, waiting.

  A slow, cruel smile spread across the Devil’s face as Matthew approached, knife raised. "You think you can stop me?" The Devil’s voice was low, mocking. Matthew’s grip tightened on the hilt of the knife, his mind swirling with anger and fear.

  He lunged at the High Rise Devil, hoping to land a fatal blow, but the Devil was faster. With a simple twist of his wrist, he disarmed Matthew, sending the blade spinning across the marble floor. Before Matthew could process what had happened, the Devil was on him.

  Matthew cried out, but his scream was cut short as the High Rise Devil’s cold, cruel hands grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind his back, forcing him to his knees. The boy’s breath came in ragged gasps, the pain shooting up his arm like fire.

  “Please,” Matthew begged, his voice weak, “Don’t kill me.”

  The High Rise Devil chuckled darkly, enjoying the power he had over the boy. With a sudden, sharp movement, he plunged a knife into Matthew’s side, cutting through muscle and sinew. Matthew’s scream was drowned by the sickening sound of the blade entering his flesh. Blood began to spill from the wound, gushing out in thick streams, drenching his clothes and pooling on the floor beneath him. Matthew’s vision blurred as the life drained out of him, his body shaking in violent spasms.

  The High Rise Devil stepped back, admiring his work as the blood poured from Matthew’s body. The boy's mouth moved, but no words escaped. His final breath was a faint rasp, and then his body went still.

  Down the hall, Sophie Heidan, the youngest of the family, had heard everything. The house was in chaos, and she was terrified. She huddled in her room, her small body trembling with fear, but no one was coming to save her. When she heard footsteps nearing her door, she knew it was too late.

  Desperate, she moved toward the window, trying to escape, but the Black Angel was already there. He was a force of nature, and there was nowhere for her to run. His eyes glinted with cold malice as he grabbed her by the hair, yanking her back into the room. Sophie screamed, her voice high-pitched and frantic, but it didn’t matter. She was already dead.

  “Please, please,” she begged, her hands trembling as she tried to push him away. But the Black Angel was unyielding. He smiled coldly, his face devoid of emotion. With one swift motion, he drew a blade from his belt, the metal glinting in the dim light. Sophie’s eyes widened with horror as she realized what was about to happen. She tried to struggle, but the Black Angel’s hand held her in place with a force that was unbreakable.

  The blade was sharp, cutting through her throat in a single, clean swipe. Sophie’s scream was muffled by the gurgling blood as it poured from her neck. Her hands flew to her throat, but it was too late. The life drained from her eyes as she collapsed, her body falling limp to the floor in a crimson heap.

  With the Heidan family now reduced to nothing more than lifeless corpses, Black Angel and High Rise Devil moved through the mansion like phantoms, leaving behind a trail of destruction. They had killed with clinical precision, ensuring no one had escaped. The family’s legacy—its power, its wealth—meant nothing in the face of their cruelty.

  As the two killers stood over the bodies of the Heidan family, they exchanged a look of satisfaction. This was more than a massacre. It was a message—a demonstration of their absolute power. The Heidans had lived in their ivory tower, believing they were untouchable, but now they were nothing.

  The High Rise Devil laughed softly, his gaze sweeping over the blood-soaked scene. “They were nothing but pawns, Black Angel,” he said with dark amusement. “Just like everyone else.”

  Black Angel didn’t respond. His gaze was cold and unwavering, his expression impassive. The Heidan family was no more. Their empire had crumbled under the weight of their arrogance.

  As the two killers made their exit, they didn’t look back. The mansion behind them burned, the flames licking at the night sky, a fitting end to the Heidan family’s reign. The smoke curled up into the heavens, a reminder of the chaos they had wrought.

  For Black Angel and High Rise Devil, this was just another step in their endless war against the world. They had brought the Heidans to their knees, but this was only the beginning. They would continue their crusade—dismantling the world’s systems of power, one family at a time. No one was safe.

  And as they disappeared into the night, they knew this: there would be no end to their reign. The world was theirs for the taking, and they would stop at nothing to claim it.

  The Heidan family had fallen. The world would soon follow.

  The Wrath of the Fallen

  The flames from the Heidan mansion had long since faded into the night, leaving behind only the charred remains of a once-proud dynasty. The streets outside were eerily quiet, the kind of silence that only came after great violence. The city had not yet realized the scope of what had transpired, but in time, it would. Black Angel and High Rise Devil knew this all too well. This was only the first domino in their grand design.

  As they moved through the shadows, their figures melded with the darkness, each step deliberate and calculated. They didn’t need to speak to understand the unspoken bond between them. Their partnership was forged in blood—a symbiotic relationship where each of their actions amplified the other’s. One was the storm, and the other, the hand that guided it.

  “Do you think they'll come for us?” High Rise Devil asked, his voice low, tinged with amusement. His smirk was dangerous, the kind that never quite reached his eyes.

  Black Angel’s expression remained unreadable as always, his features carved from stone. He didn’t respond at first, his mind running through the possibilities. He was already anticipating the moves of the city’s elite—the ones who would come, seeking to avenge the Heidans, unaware of the forces they were about to unleash upon themselves.

  “There will be others,” Black Angel finally replied, his voice cold as the air around them. “But they will fall just like the Heidans.”

  The High Rise Devil chuckled darkly, admiring the man who had once been his equal. Now, however, there was a palpable distance between them, one born from their differences, their ambitions, and the merciless journey they had walked together. Still, the Devil respected the Black Angel. There was power in him that even the Devil could not ignore. Their alliance was built on mutual understanding—each of them capable of great things, but together, they were unstoppable.

  The night stretched on, and the two killers moved through the city’s underbelly like predators in search of their next victim. The skyline loomed in the distance, the glow of the city lights like a siren call for those who had the strength to wield power.

  As they reached their destination, a quiet, upscale establishment in the heart of the city, High Rise Devil’s smirk faded into something more sinister. He had been informed by his network of spies that this was a place where the powerful gathered—a place where the city's elite and their dirty secrets were exchanged behind closed doors. It was the perfect location to begin their next strike.

  Inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension, the soft murmur of hushed conversations barely masking the undercurrent of fear that seeped through the walls. Those who were present had no idea that death had arrived in the form of two shadows moving within their midst. Black Angel and High Rise Devil moved with grace, their every step cloaked in silence, as though the world around them had ceased to exist. They were invisible to those around them, and yet they were the only things that mattered.

  The first to fall was a powerful businessman named Victor Oren, a man who had made his fortune by exploiting the desperate and the vulnerable. He sat in a secluded booth, oblivious to the danger lurking just outside his line of sight. Black Angel’s approach was swift, a blur of motion as his hand clamped around Victor’s throat. The businessman’s eyes widened in shock, his body jerking in panic as Black Angel’s grip tightened.

  “You’ve caused enough suffering,” Black Angel whispered in his ear, his voice cold and final. Victor’s struggles were futile, and within moments, his body went limp.

  The room remained oblivious to the death unfolding in their midst, too wrapped up in their own ambitions to notice the predator among them. But as High Rise Devil made his move, the chaos began to spread.

  High Rise Devil was an artist when it came to pain. He took his time, savoring the fear that rippled through the room as he cut down one figure after another. A whisper here, a blade there, and soon, bodies littered the floor, their blood staining the plush carpet. Screams filled the air, but they were cut short as quickly as they had begun.

  The patrons scattered in panic, but they were trapped. No one escaped. The two killers were everywhere, their presence like a plague of locusts, destroying everything in their path. And just as quickly as it had started, the massacre ended. The room fell silent once again, the only sound the heavy, ragged breathing of those few who had survived.

  Black Angel and High Rise Devil stood amidst the carnage, their eyes cold, their faces unreadable. They had done what they had set out to do. This wasn’t just about vengeance; it was about sending a message. The city’s elite were no longer safe. They could hide behind their wealth and power, but in the end, they were just as vulnerable as anyone else.

  As they made their exit, stepping over the fallen bodies of the city’s most powerful, Black Angel glanced at High Rise Devil. “The world is not as it seems,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s all a game—a game they think they control.”

  “And we’re the ones who get to flip the board over,” High Rise Devil replied with a wicked grin. “One by one.”

  The city’s skyline stretched out before them, a monument to greed, corruption, and power. It was a world of illusion, one that the Heidans had built for themselves and others like them. But now, it was crumbling. They had begun the dismantling, and there was no turning back.

  As they disappeared into the night, the winds of change began to stir. The city, once so confident in its security, was now ripe for the taking. The Black Angel and High Rise Devil were more than just killers; they were the harbingers of a new order—one built on fear, destruction, and chaos.

  The world had been asleep for too long, and now, it was time to wake it up.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The Black Angel vs. High Devil: The Clash of Absolute Philosophy

  Introduction

  In a world where morality is nothing more than a feeble construct—an elaborate mask worn to hide the stench of corruption and decay—two beings rise above the pretense. The Black Angel, a nihilist who has long abandoned the delusions of hope and salvation, is determined to unmask the hypocrisy of moral absolutism. The High Devil, an entity who revels in the supremacy of raw will and domination, embraces the brutal truth that only power matters. Their conflict is not merely one of bodies clashing in combat but of ideologies battling for dominance—a duel of words and actions where every phrase cuts like a sharpened blade and every conviction is forged in the fires of existential despair. The battlefield, like the hearts of its champions, is scarred beyond recognition—a reminder that true destruction begins within.

  Scene One: The Meeting of Fate

  The sky above was an abyss of swirling crimson, as if the heavens themselves wept in anticipation of the coming cataclysm. Beneath them lay the ruins of a once-prosperous civilization—a shattered monument to the ephemeral nature of human endeavor. On the rooftop of a crumbling skyscraper, amidst flickering neon lights and the acrid smell of blood and gasoline, the Black Angel and High Devil met. Two figures, standing resolute in a dying world.

  The Black Angel, his wings a remnant of a time long past, folded tightly against his body, gazed at the devastation around him. His eyes were dark, as empty and vast as the void itself, a reflection of the boundless expanse that lay within. "You stand upon the ashes of those who once clung to illusions of purpose. Look upon this destruction—what do you truly see?" His voice was a cold whisper, almost tender in its nihilistic sorrow.

  The High Devil, standing across from him, cracked his knuckles, his crimson eyes aflame with malice and unbridled joy. His lips curled into a cruel, disdainful grin. "I see the inevitable collapse of a world built on lies. The weak perish, the strong endure, and those who dare to feign morality are nothing but fools. This is the only truth: might makes right, and destiny belongs to those willing to seize it. Look at this ruin, Black Angel—it is the natural order. It is the truth that frees us from the shackles of illusion."

  A heavy silence fell, the air thick with the scent of blood and fire. Far off, the wail of sirens faded into the distance, replaced by the crackling of burning debris. The Black Angel’s voice broke the stillness. "A predictable response from one who mistakes brutality for purpose. Tell me, High Devil—if all that matters is the exercise of power, what becomes of those who possess it yet choose the path of restraint? What of those who can destroy but decide to withhold their wrath?"

  The High Devil's grin faltered, replaced by a look of arrogant amusement. "Restraint is a pitiful symptom of weakness. To hold power and not unleash it is to court oblivion. You, Black Angel, know this too well. That is why you stand here—a living contradiction, a man who denies the very essence of existence yet clings to the remnants of what others call 'virtue.'"

  The Black Angel’s gaze narrowed, his eyes sharp as a dagger’s edge. "I reject the idea that strength alone defines existence. I have seen the world for what it truly is—an endless charade built on false morality, a house of cards waiting to fall. You, High Devil, cling to power as if it is a cure for the ailment of the human soul. But what is power if not the capacity to dismantle the lies that bind us?"

  The High Devil’s laugh echoed through the ruins, hollow and mocking. "You fancy yourself free, yet you are a slave to your own contradictions. We all are. Your desire to expose the hypocrisy of the world is just another form of delusion. In the end, the only thing that matters is power. All else is dust—empty words, empty promises, empty hope."

  The Black Angel’s wings shifted slightly, as if burdened by the weight of the argument. "I fight not to destroy for destruction's sake, but to unmask the artifice of this broken world. The pretensions of virtue, of love, of sacrifice—they are the greatest crimes of all. They are the lies that have bound humanity to a fate of endless despair. If your philosophy were absolute, there would be no need for me—for those like me who expose the futility of these so-called ideals."

  Scene Two: The Battle Begins - Epic and Brutal

  Without warning, the High Devil surged forward, the ground cracking beneath his feet as dark flames erupted from his fists, setting the air ablaze. His very presence seemed to warp the atmosphere, bending it to his will as he unleashed an unholy blast that sent waves of heat and destruction through the surrounding void.

  The Black Angel was unfazed. With a fluid motion, he drew his blade—a weapon forged from the essence of nothingness, shimmering like the void between stars. His blade met the fiery onslaught, cutting through the inferno with a series of precise and calculated counterstrikes. Each movement was a manifestation of his philosophy—an expression of the rejection of meaning, a defiance against the weight of existence. It was as if his every strike was saying, this is all a game, this is all absurd, and it changes nothing.

  "You wield your weapon as if it could change the nature of this wretched reality," the High Devil sneered, his eyes glowing with malicious glee. His fiery chains whipped through the air like living serpents, each one striking with the intent to maim and tear. "Yet, even as you fight, you betray a deep-seated fear—a reluctance to fully embrace the chaos that is our birthright."

  The Black Angel's expression remained cold, calculating. He didn't flinch. With a flick of his wrist, he cleaved through the molten chains with an ease that was almost disdainful. He met the High Devil's savage blows with calm counterattacks, his every movement as graceful as it was lethal.

  "I fight not to change the world," the Black Angel's voice was a sharp, icy whisper, "but to reveal it for what it truly is. Your lust for power blinds you to the truth that lies beneath the surface. You speak of chaos as if it is the answer to all things, but chaos, like order, is but a construct—a fleeting notion in a meaningless universe."

  The High Devil’s laugh was a guttural roar, filled with contempt. "How quaint," he spat, his eyes burning with a predatory gleam. "You think you’re above it all, don’t you? But you’re just as chained as I am, clinging to that false belief that existence has some sort of meaning. Chaos is the answer—it’s the only truth in a world built on lies. You reject it, but deep down, you know… you know you crave it."

  Before the Black Angel could respond, the High Devil lunged forward, fists aflame with the essence of torment. He unleashed a final, all-consuming strike—a torrent of molten agony that rained down like a fiery storm. His chains of searing fire spiraled through the air, seeking to ensnare the Black Angel in a net of eternal suffering.

  The Black Angel didn’t even blink. With a mere flick of his wrist, he dissolved the chains into nothingness, as if they were mere illusions in a fleeting dream. The flames, which should have consumed everything in their path, bent and disintegrated as they touched the void of his blade. His indifference to the fiery chaos around him was a testament to his absolute resolve—nothing could touch him, nothing could break him. Not even the flames of oblivion.

  The High Devil's eyes widened in disbelief, fury flooding his every pore. He growled low in his throat, voice dripping with venom. "You fancy yourself free," the Black Angel's words came like a cold, biting critique. "Yet you remain a slave to your own relentless desire—to dominate, to tear down all that pretends to be sacred. In your eyes, truth is nothing more than the reflection of your own ambition."

  The High Devil's eyes burned with hatred. "And you, Black Angel, who clings to a semblance of honor in the face of inevitable destruction, are the last vestige of a dying hope. You reject the natural order, but in doing so, you create your own prison. You are just like everyone else—trapped in your own denial of what you truly are."

  The Black Angel’s eyes narrowed, his blade flickering with the light of an untold void. "I am what I choose to be," he said quietly, "and I choose to stand against the chaos. Not because I fear it, but because I see the futility of your war. You wage it on a foundation of lies, and that is why you will never win."

  With that, the battle intensified. Each clash between them sent shockwaves through the void, a brutal symphony of destruction and ideology. The air crackled with the power of their wills, each explosion of energy a manifestation of their unyielding philosophies—two ideologies locked in an eternal struggle, unable to bend to the other.

  The High Devil, his body surging with unrelenting fury, summoned waves of dark energy to tear the world asunder. His molten chains wrapped around pillars of light, turning them to ash with every strike. His laugh was guttural, distorted, as if the universe itself was bowing to him.

  The Black Angel, his eyes glowing with a cold, otherworldly light, met every blow with a silence that echoed through the expanse. Each cut of his blade was perfect, a stroke of nothingness, carving through reality itself. He didn’t fight to destroy, but to expose. With every strike, he peeled back the layers of existence, revealing the raw, untamed truth of the void beneath.

  As the two titans collided, the world trembled with the weight of their battle—an epic clash of ideologies, of chaos and order, of life and death. But as they fought, the void around them seemed to shift, as if even the universe itself couldn’t decide which force it would bow to.

  Scene Three: The Philosophical Reckoning

  The aftermath of their violent clash was one of eerie silence. The High Devil lay sprawled at the edge of the abyss, his body scorched and broken, a testament to the brutality of their conflict. The Black Angel, standing tall amidst the wreckage, allowed himself a moment of introspection.

  "Tell me, High Devil," he began slowly, his voice almost lost in the wind, "do you not see the irony of our existence? We stand as paragons of nihilism and raw ambition, yet our very struggle is a testament to the emptiness at the heart of all things. Humanity, with all its petty ambitions and ephemeral dreams, clings to a mirage of purpose. And we—through our defiance—only reveal how pitiful that illusion truly is."

  The High Devil’s eyes snapped open, his expression a twisted mix of pain and dark amusement. He rose slowly, pain evident in his movements. "Ponder all you want," he spat, his voice heavy with disdain, "but the truth remains: humanity is an abomination—a festering wound upon the face of existence. Their hopes and dreams are nothing but desperate gasps of a dying world. Their morality a lie, designed to comfort them in the face of inevitable decay."

  The Black Angel’s gaze hardened. His voice rang out, clear and final. "And yet, it is this very humanity—the capacity to feel, to dream, to despair—that makes their hypocrisy so revolting. Their false optimism, their sham of love and connection, is the ultimate betrayal. It is not that I love humanity, but rather, I loathe it for clinging so desperately to illusions that mask their impotence. In the end, what is left but the naked, brutal truth?"

  A long, oppressive silence stretched between them as the wind howled through the desolate city. "I see," murmured the High Devil, his voice almost contemplative. "You find solace in the unadorned nihilism of existence, where nothing holds value and every hope is a lie. Yet, even as you speak of emptiness, you seem to mourn the loss of that which once made us believe in something… even if it was transient and doomed from the start."

  The Black Angel’s lips curved into a wry smile. "I mourn nothing, for mourning is a luxury reserved for the deluded. But I cannot help but recognize the exquisite irony—humanity’s endless quest for meaning, when all that awaits them is the cold embrace of oblivion. Every institution, every creed, every whisper of salvation is a temporary salve on an eternal wound. And our battle—this endless war of truth—is merely the latest chapter in a saga of futility."

  The High Devil’s laugh was a low, guttural sound that echoed off the ruined walls. "Then let us revel in that futility. Let us strip away the layers of pretense until all that remains is the raw, pulsating core of existence. Let us acknowledge that power is the only truth—because in the end, the only thing that matters is what we are capable of destroying."

  Conclusion: The Enduring Paradox

  As the Black Angel and High Devil stood facing each other, both battered and broken in ways that defied even the boundaries of their own hellish forms, a bitter silence fell between them. The air crackled with the remains of their violent exchange, a distorted echo of their clashing ideologies hanging heavy in the atmosphere. The ground beneath them, once solid and unyielding, had long since been reduced to a smoldering wasteland, the remnants of their destructive battle scattered across the landscape.

  The Black Angel, though a hollowed shell of himself, still exuded an aura of implacable resolve, his skeletal frame a monument to the sheer will it took to keep going despite the endless entropy. His wings, once radiant with divine light, now hung in tatters, a faint echo of their former glory. His hand, still dripping with the Devil’s ichor, remained steady, his grip unwavering despite the gnawing corruption that was slowly eating away at him from the inside.

  The High Devil, though his body had been reduced to a grotesque patchwork of jagged bone, molten steel, and charred flesh, stood with an almost mocking air of triumph. His infernal eyes flickered with a spark of something akin to amusement as he slowly flexed his taloned hand, feeling the world around him tremble in response to his power. His wounds, though deep, were already beginning to heal, the infernal fire within him burning brighter with each passing second.

  "You know," the High Devil said, his voice thick with blood and dark amusement, "this was never about victory. It was never about conquering the other. We fight because the void demands it. The universe demands it. It is the struggle, the eternal war, that gives us meaning—even if that meaning is nothing but a joke."

  The Black Angel said nothing, but his cold gaze was piercing, his silence a rebuttal more profound than any words could express. He knew all too well what the Devil spoke of—the chaos that lapped at the edges of their existence, the madness that clawed at their souls, and the inescapable truth that underpinned everything.

  "This cycle," the Black Angel muttered, his voice like the wind through a barren wasteland, "it will never end, will it? We fight, we bleed, and in the end, we return to the same place. Always. Always back to this meaningless battle."

  "Ah, but that's the beauty of it," the Devil crooned, his jagged smile twisting unnervingly as the last of the blood bubbled from his shattered mouth. "You see, the meaning isn’t in the victory. It’s in the struggle. The void is endless, the chaos unrelenting, and we—" he motioned between them, "we are the puppets who dance in its shadow. To accept that is to embrace freedom."

  The Black Angel’s laugh was hollow, yet laced with a deep, resigned bitterness. "Freedom?" he spat. "You think you’re free, Devil? All you’re doing is chasing your own destruction, like an animal thirsting for its final breath."

  The High Devil tilted his head, considering this. "Perhaps," he conceded with a shrug, "but at least I’m alive. I’m free in my chaos. Your indifference is just another cage."

  The Black Angel's gaze darkened, the silence between them heavy with the weight of everything they both understood—everything they both fought for, or against.

  "I fight because I must," the Black Angel finally said, his voice low but resolute. "But you—" he motioned with his remaining hand to the Devil, "you fight because you can’t accept that everything is already over. All of it. Every battle, every struggle, every victory… meaningless."

  The Devil laughed then, the sound harsh and gravelly, but laced with the sharpness of truth. "Oh, you’re right," he said, with a vicious gleam in his eyes. "It’s all meaningless. But that doesn’t make it any less real. That’s the paradox, Angel. It’s the only thing that matters."

  And so, standing amidst the ruin of their shattered world, the two ancient beings locked eyes, their philosophies unyielding but intertwined in a single, tragic truth: they were locked in a battle that could never be won. It was not a war of dominance, not a struggle to claim power over the other, but an eternal struggle to survive, to endure, to exist in a world that offered no comfort, no solace, no meaning.

  The Black Angel knew the truth, just as the High Devil did: there were no heroes or villains here. There were no gods to worship, no devils to destroy. There was only the void, the relentless tide of destruction that would consume all things, all beings, until nothing remained but the silence of oblivion.

  But that silence would never come. Not while there was still something to fight for, something to resist. And so, their war would continue, like the ceaseless turning of a wheel, a war that would never truly end because it could never be won. It would go on forever, until the universe itself collapsed into the void, a war fought in the shadows of meaninglessness, a battle that would continue for all eternity.

  As inevitable as the shifting tides of fate. A paradox that would endure until the very fabric of existence unraveled.