"When sin and virtue become entangled, only pure grace can discern the fate of worlds."
The Most High, observing a world plunged into darkness and corruption, did not despair. Amidst the degeneration of scattered seeds — among fairies, monsters, witches, and aberrations — He saw a faint but resilient light: the children of true love.
Thus, He blessed a single being, a single Nephilim, born from the union of one of the few uncorrupted Angels:
The Angel of Death, the first and true Shinigami, who reaped souls not out of malice but out of mercy.
And a human, simple and mortal, whose love and courage defied even destiny.
Their child bore something not of this world: a fragment of pure Grace, older than the Heavens themselves.
A singular blessing was pronounced upon him:
"Each generation of your blood shall grow not a thousandfold, but 1024 times in strength, spirit, and grace."
A number few would understand, yet it represented the fullness of creation and the hidden order behind chaos:
1024 = 2¹⁰, the perfect foundation of divine construction and multiplication.
The Training
Deprived of his mother at birth — for no human womb could withstand the weight of his existence or that of any Nephilim — the Nephilim was raised by his father, at the boundary between the world of the living and the veil of death. His training was not merely physical but spiritual:
Learning to hear the whispers of souls.
Controlling the hunger for power that every hybrid creature felt.
Resisting the temptations that had destroyed other Nephilim.
Forging a sword capable of cutting both flesh and fate.
The Call of the Companion
And in his dreams, since childhood, he saw her.
A young woman with untamed eyes and a shadowed smile, born of cursed blood: Daughter of the Prince of Gluttony, yet different from her corrupted lineage.
She was an aberration even in Hell, despised by some, feared by others. She was born with a spark of something even Satanaiel did not know: absolute free will.
While he was shaped by discipline and purity, she grew in wildness and hunger — yet never surrendered to corruption.
She was his imperfect half, the only one capable of understanding the brutal loneliness of being a hybrid, torn between worlds that would never accept them.
"Where the Son of Death treads, the earth falls silent. Where the Daughter of Hunger smiles, kingdoms tremble."
The Destiny
These two Nephilim, entwined by prophecy, would not merely be guardians. They would be the spark and the shield of the final war. The generation born of their spirits could alter the balance not only of Earth but of the Heavens and Hell.
The Most High, in blessing them, did not promise easy victory. He promised only the right to fight.
"When the Seventh Trumpet sounds and the earth shatters, they will decide whether to save or condemn."
The Daughter of Hunger
"Before she knew how to speak, she already knew the taste of absence."
She was born in the abyss between Hell and the world of men — not in a golden cradle, but in damp caves, in forbidden forests where shadows were older than time.
Her father, one of the Princes of Gluttony, did not want her. She was not conceived out of desire but out of error — a distraction, a forgotten whim. And when she was born, she did not bear the mark of eternal hunger but something no demon could endure: a free soul.
Her first punishment was abandonment. Cast as an infant into the forgotten lands of men, she should have died. But the hunger within her was not merely physical: it was a hunger for life, for freedom, for choice.
Raised by beasts, she walked among monsters as an equal.
She fed on what the earth provided but refused feasts offered by tainted hands.
She fought for every day, and each victory etched scars into her skin.
Her eyes, once innocent, became as sharp as blades.
And she grew.
She was beautiful like a fairy, but not pure like the Angels, nor terrible like the demons — yet there was something about her that no being could ignore: a presence that made even the Ancient Gods recoil.
For she carried a power that should not exist:
The ability to desire without being consumed.
The hunger to choose her own destiny, without kneeling.
When she completed 16 lunar cycles, a voice began to whisper in her dreams. It was neither a demonic whisper nor an angelic call — it was a strange melody, speaking of someone like her, someone who walked the boundary between life and death. A Nephilim born of Grace and Loss.
And for the first time, she felt something different from hunger: hope.
The First Encounter
"On the threshold of two existences, they gazed at each other — and the world held its breath."
It was not in palaces or flowered fields. It was in the forgotten ruins of a city devoured by war, where death and silence reigned.
He — the Son of Death — walked alone, following the fragments of dreams that guided him. She — the Daughter of Hunger — hunted an ancient beast to prove to herself that she was still the master of her soul.
When their paths crossed, time seemed to halt.
He saw her: scarred skin, vivid eyes, and a defiant stance.
She saw him: an aura blending light and darkness, a presence that seemed to belong to another world.
They exchanged no words at first.
One soul recognized the other.
He smiled for the first time in years. She lowered her guard for the first time in her life.
And Destiny, in silence, bowed before them.
The Weapons of the Most High
When the Most High saw the two united — he, the Son of Death; she, the Daughter of Hunger — He descended to the mortal world in a moment witnessed by few and survived by even fewer.
The earth quaked. The sky parted in silence. Time bent.
And He spoke:
"You shall be My guardians. The fire that purifies. The blade that separates the righteous from the corrupt."
Then, the Most High bestowed upon them gifts forged before the world's creation:
To her, a lance made from the first ray of light and the last breath of a fallen star — the Lance of Anamnesis, capable of piercing souls and destroying corruption at its root.
To him, a sword that did not command death but souls themselves — a Bankai unlike any other: The Sword of Viração, able to purify, seal, or shatter the souls of the damned without ever enslaving them.
They would not be executioners. They would be judges.
Not to kill for pleasure, but to restore the balance so many had broken.
Guided by fragments of the Most High's Will, they traveled through forgotten worlds.
And where once there were only ashes and ruins, they raised the Fortress of Altharéon — a bastion for the good Nephilim, a last hope against the advance of corruption.
Its walls were of black stone, engraved with golden blessings. The winds sang ancient prayers in its towers. And beneath its foundations ran living water — pure, eternal.
They were not alone.
The Elementals, primordial beings who had never involved themselves in celestial or infernal wars, answered the call.
The Fire, which saw in them the spark of revolution.
The Earth, which felt their steadfastness of spirit.
The Air, which admired their freedom.
The Water, which recognized their hidden compassion.
These ancient beings pledged loyalty, not as servants but as allies, for they knew that if these two failed, there would be no world left to defend.
The New War
While the Fortress grew, the world decayed. Supernatural wars — among vampires, werewolves, witches, lesser gods, demons, and aberrations — grew more brutal with each generation.
But their mission was clear: not to interfere in mortal disputes, not to take sides between light and darkness. Only to purify the corrupted Nephilim. To seal those who could not be saved.
And for that, they would have to march against creatures who were half-angel, half-hell, thirsting for power and vengeance.
The First Hunt was about to begin.
It was not a single battle. It was a succession of wars.
The Son of Death and the Daughter of Hunger, armed by the will of the Most High and followed by the Legion of pure Nephilim, marched against their corrupted brethren.
For a hundred years, thousands of Nephilim were hunted and purified. They were like pests: scattered, disorganized, fierce. They fell one by one, in ambushes, street fights, duels, and massacres.
Until they learned.
The corrupted Nephilim united. They formed a black army, guided by ancient infernal princes who had taught them the true meaning of war. And then came the greatest battle.
The First Battle of Good and Evil
One hundred pure Nephilim. Against ten thousand corrupted.
The plains of Ankar-Teth became an altar to war. The sky turned red. The earth cracked under the steps of fallen giants.
But under the leadership of the Son of Death and the Daughter of Hunger, the Legion of the Pure did not retreat. Did not hesitate. Did not beg.
And on the third day, when corpses formed mountains, when the magic of witches bled into the earth, when even dragons hesitated to fly over the battlefield... they triumphed.
The Sealing in Tartarus
The Most High had warned: "Do not utterly destroy your brethren. Seal them. For the fate of the corrupted will still be part of My designs."
Obeying this command, the Legion's leaders used their sanctified weapons. The Lance of Anamnesis tore the veil of the world. The Sword of Viração bound souls in eternal chains.
The corrupted Nephilim were imprisoned in Tartarus, the deepest abyss beyond the Domain of Hell, where even Satanaiel dared not extend his reign.
There they remained. Forgotten. Asleep. And dangerously alive.
The Fear of the Races
The other races saw.
They saw a hundred soldiers crush ten thousand.
They saw the fury contained in the blades of the pure Nephilim.
They saw what a fragment of Grace could do.
And for the first time in the history of creation, vampires hid, werewolves silenced their howls, witches burned their grimoires, dragons flew to forgotten lands.
For if even fragments of Grace were thus... what could the originals do? What would it be to face true Angels and Archangels?
No one wished to find out.
The name of the good Nephilim became legend, and the two leaders — the Son of Death and the Daughter of Hunger — became myth.
But deep down, all knew: Tartarus would not remain sealed forever.
The Foundation of the Supernatural World
After the war, seeing the Earth corrupted and saturated, the Son of Death knelt before the Most High and cried:
"Grant me a world, O Father, where Creation is not condemned to ruin. Where the divine breath You placed in beings is not lost in blood and darkness."
And the Most High, with a sorrowful gaze, granted it.
From the eternal throne, He extended His hand. From His gesture arose eighty-one Divine Pillars, works of pure primordial essence, capable of sustaining an entirely new cosmos.
Each Pillar bore an aspect of Creation: Strength, Wisdom, Fire, Time, Gravity, Life, Death...
And thus, under the command of the Son of Death and the Daughter of Hunger, the Supernatural World was born: a world millions of times larger than Earth, with gravity a thousand times stronger, where no seal limited the power of its creatures.
There, each race could flourish in its fullest splendor.
Dragons rebuilt their lost empires.
Vampires forged kingdoms of eternal shadow.
Werewolves ran in hunts that lasted centuries.
Sorcerers and witches raised towers that touched the veil of the heavens.
And at the pulsing heart of the new world stood the Palace of Elentis, an immense citadel wrought from fragments of the Pillars themselves.
There would dwell the Son of Death and the Daughter of Hunger, lords and guardians of this new cycle.
The Fragile Balance
But there was an uncomfortable truth.
The pure Nephilim were few: hundreds against millions.
The supernatural races, freed from their seals, were dangerous, proud, thirsting for autonomy.
Some accepted the Nephilim's leadership; others growled in silence, awaiting the first chance to rebel.
In the mortal world, none knew: there, the Most High permitted no being to use more than a tenth of their true power, and not even Earth's wisest knew of this hidden limitation.
But in the Supernatural World, power was absolute. Future wars would be far worse.
A New Purpose
The Son of Death gazed upon the new world, upon the countless souls now dependent on him and his companion.
And he vowed:
"We do not fight to be kings. We fight to protect what can still be saved."
What will come of this promise? Redemption or destruction?
Time will tell.