The silence was the first thing Sung Jin-Woo noticed.
It was a profound and heavy quiet, deeper than the hushed reverence of a tomb. It was the absolute silence of a world bled dry, a quiet that clung to the very atoms of the air and promised nothing but dust and echoes. After the final, cataclysmic battle against Antares, after the clamor of a world celebrating its hard-won peace, this utter stillness was a dissonant chord in the symphony of his existence.
He stood atop a mountain of jagged, black glass that might have once been a sprawling metropolis. The sky above was a bruised purple, choked with clouds of ancient ash that swirled in lazy, ageless patterns. No sun pierced the gloom, only a diffuse, melancholic light that painted the endless ruins in shades of grey. Jin-Woo drew in a breath. The air tasted of ozone, rust, and a sorrow so old it had become a physical property of the environment.
His attire was simple, a stark contrast to the baroque, decaying world around him. A high-collar black coat flowed down to his ankles, unblemished by the soot that covered every surface. Beneath it, a simple grey shirt and black pants, practical and devoid of ostentation. His face, sharp and impossibly handsome, held its usual calm neutrality, but his dark eyes, which now held the entirety of death's domain, swept across the horizon, analyzing, cataloging. The System, his constant companion and guide, was silent. No blue screens, no alerts, no quests. He was truly, finally, on his own.
A faint pressure bloomed in his mind, the familiar presence of his most trusted commanders seeking permission. With a thought he commanded them to manifest, his will rippling through the space around him.
From his own shadow, four distinct forms bled into existence, each an apex predator in its own right, their combined presence a crushing weight that made the very air crackle.
First to rise was the Grand-Marshal, Bellion. He was impossibly tall and broad-shouldered, yet moved with an ancient grace, his presence radiating a primordial authority that predated stars. His entire form was sculpted from living shadow, his armored body a seamless fusion of void-black matter and violet fire. The darkness around him shifted like smoke caught in slow motion, as if reality itself bowed beneath his existence. His wings vast, blade-like extensions of his own essence shimmered with deep purple embers, their edges rippling with the energy of creation undone. His eyes burned within a helm of darkness, a twin sun imprisoned in eternal night. From his back, a chain-blade formed from condensed shadow coiled and uncoiled like a serpent of black flame, alive with restrained hunger. He was the Monarch's will made flesh, not of metal or bone, but of pure, eternal night bound to purpose.
To Bellion's right rose Igris. The perfect knight had transcended his mortal form, now a being woven entirely from shadow and command. His armor was not forged, but manifested, blacker than the void, outlined by subtle streams of violet energy that pulsed with every silent breath of his master. He absorbed light, swallowing it whole, leaving only a thin silhouette of regal menace. Beneath his helm, twin amethyst fires burned with unwavering discipline. The red plume upon his helm no longer bore the color of mortal silk but was instead a living current of monarchic energy, rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pulse. The air bent faintly around him, drawn by the gravity of his unwavering fealty as he knelt, the embodiment of eternal obedience.
On Bellion's left, an electric surge of black and violet mana coalesced into the shape of Beru. His form was sleek and insectoid, but now refined by the Monarch's touch, his carapace a living nightscape that reflected no light, instead breathing with dark luminescence. Where once chitin and claw had been, now only shadow moved, sculpted in the likeness of a predator perfected. The glow of his multifaceted eyes had deepened to burning amethyst, alive with intelligence and unrestrained zeal. From his back unfurled two pairs of wings, not membranous but woven from translucent mana that shimmered like glass under starlight. When he breathed, the sound was a low, resonant hum, the vibration of darkness given life. The manic hunger of his old self had evolved into a more terrifying certainty: a predator who killed not for pleasure, but for divine order.
Finally, the air warped and shimmered as Tusk emerged. The High Orc Shaman was no longer bound to flesh, but reborn as an archmage of shadow itself. His towering form pulsed with purple light beneath layers of translucent black mana that rippled like heat haze. His tusks gleamed faintly with spectral silver, and the runes etched across his shadowed skin flared in rhythmic patterns, spells written directly into his being. A ghostly mantle of smoke shaped like a horned beast's skull crowned him, burning faintly with ember-orange light, while around him, entire constellations of runes orbited like silent planets, each one a spell of annihilation in patient suspension. When he raised his staff, the air bowed, as though gravity itself remembered whom it served.
The four Marshals stood or knelt before their monarch, a council of demigods ready to wage war across galaxies.
Jin-Woo's gaze passed over each of them. "Report." His voice was a low baritone, calm and measured, yet it held an authority that could command legions.
Bellion was the first to answer, his voice a deep, respectful tone that resonated directly in Jin-Woo's mind.
Igris raised his head, his own mental voice a rasping echo.
Beru took a half-step forward, his head cocked as he practically vibrated with excitement.
Tusk's staff thumped once on the glass ground.
Jin-Woo processed their reports in an instant. An artificial extinction event. An orbital observer. Crude, violent lifeforms underground. And a hostile form of cosmic energy. A faint smile touched the corner of his lips. It wasn't the warm smile of his past life, but the thin, sharp smile of a predator who has just entered a new jungle, one filled with unseen and potentially dangerous game.
"Good," he said softly, the single word carrying the weight of a coming storm. "Then it's not entirely boring."
He turned his gaze towards a colossal, shattered aquila statue half-buried in the glass plains below, a two-headed eagle that symbolized some forgotten faith. It was as good a landmark as any.
"Bellion, prepare the Legion. Igris, you have the vanguard. Tusk, be ready to counter any unfamiliar sorcery. Beru..." He paused, looking at his most eager soldier. "...try not to have all the fun yourself."
Beru's mental laughter was a screech of pure joy.
With a single thought from their Monarch, the true army stirred. From the shadows of the four Marshals, an ocean of darkness began to spread across the plains. Ten million shadows answered his call, yet only a hundred thousand were allowed to rise. From the abyss, elite knights, hulking orcs, nimble assassins, and monstrous beasts materialized in perfect, synchronized silence. They formed ranks with a discipline that would shame the most decorated armies of this new universe. There was no sound of marching, no war cries, only the silent, suffocating presence of a fraction of an unstoppable legion.
The silence of the dead world was finally and irrevocably broken. It was replaced by the disciplined, absolute will of the Shadow Monarch. The 41st Millennium was about to learn a new definition of fear.