As the Infiniverse Crucible continued its wonders.
Far from it.
From the edge of a collapsing concept, deep within the Dead Wheel of Existence, a paradox walked.
Ozymandias.
A Dead Thing, yet still tethered to something far beyond simple collapse.
A remnant of Existence.
A Quintessential Entity.
The Dead Prime Frequency of the End rippled with black flame as he stepped forward, having been bathing in death the last two days.
Blue-gold threads wove into his obsidian body like echoes from another Existence, his form cloaked in funeral elegance, roiling obsidian mist wrapped in infinite runes.
His bare feet left no imprint on the death-wrapped soil and space.
Yet his presence carved scars into the very resonance of this realm.
He did not breathe. He did not pulse.
But existence around him remembered that he once had. That he was a Living Thing!
"Even death," Ozymandias murmured, his voice thunderous despite its softness, "can be refined."
