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The sky was crimson, blood-red, and the black clouds streaked with scarlet proclaimed the end of the world. Like a grim mirror, it reflected what was happening on the ground: torn corpses and scattered entrails—some cleaved by swords, others pierced by spears, and many transformed into grotesque pincushions by countless arrows. The earth was dyed in blood, interrupted by frozen pools that had overflowed long ago. The air was saturated with the metallic stench of iron and blood.
Bodies of every race and size lay strewn across the battlefield: humans, elves, dwarves, dragons, demi-humans, orcs, goblins, vampires, werewolves, demons, and angels. The scene itself was a living hell—an inferno of horror, a painting that pulsed with blood and searing heat.
The clash of swords against armor and the screams echoing everywhere tore at the ears, while the shockwaves from exploding spells rattled bones. This carnage was not confined to a single location; it stretched beyond the horizon, across the entire continent. Everywhere, the same scene repeated endlessly—unceasing combat, flesh being ripped apart, the heavy stench of blood mixing with iron, gunpowder, and soot, suffocating the breath. The cries of children, the screams of women, the groans of the elderly, and the desperate prayers of civilians were swallowed by the roar of war.
Blazing colors erupted from magical incantations, and blazing battle spirits burst forth from the bodies of knights, igniting like sparks of fire as they struck the ground. Even the terrain itself had changed: mountains shattered, rivers and lakes dried up, forests burned until they became black ash, and charred corpses released the foul stench of burnt flesh.
It was not only the land that was destroyed, but cities, kingdoms, and empires as well. Some vanished from the face of the world entirely; others remained as ruins, while a few clung desperately to their last standing walls. The very air trembled with the echoes of war.
The entire world had become nothing more than a massive meat grinder, where the forces of heaven, earth, hell, and the abyss collided in a single, all-consuming battle. Everyone was killing everyone else, each side pursuing its own goal—some fighting for life and so-called good, others for destruction and evil. The cries of torn souls echoed through the air.
Both factions felt the crushing weight of this war. It had raged for over ten years since its official beginning, and now only the final confrontation remained: the Hero's Party versus the Demon King.
The battle that would decide the fate of the war had begun—and it carried a grim surprise. This time, victory belonged to the dark side. The Hero's Party suffered a crushing defeat; some even chose to pledge allegiance to the Demon King. Their leader himself fell, his head rolling across the blood-soaked ground, amid the sharp stench of iron and burnt flesh.
And when the last spark of hope faded, something strange happened.
Those who had just sworn loyalty to the Demon King had their heads severed in a single, decisive strike. Dust and blood rose into the air.
It was not the Demon King who did it.
Nor any of his followers.
It was a human.
All eyes turned toward him.
He wore black armor etched with runic inscriptions. In his hand was a long sword, gleaming with eerie, terrifying symbols. His long gray hair reached his neck, and his face was twisted with rage—marked by a scar over his left eye and another at the corner of his mouth. His eyes glowed violet. His aura surged toward the heavens, radiating lethal heat that scorched anyone who drew near.
The Demon King gazed at the human and smiled grotesquely, his eyes flashing with anger. He had lost potential tools before using them. Though he considered them nothing more than insects foolish enough to call themselves heroes, their deaths were still an insult to him.
The human walked toward the fallen hero's severed head, picked it up, and held it up before him. Even in death, it was clear the hero had not wished to die. He had never spoken the word "surrender."
Had the Demon King's blade hesitated even a moment, the hero would have sworn loyalty. In the end, he had been a selfish man—his choices leading to this very outcome.
A strange glint flickered in the human's eyes, sending a chill through the air.
"So this is the result of your choices, Tusk," he said in a hoarse voice, filled with coldness, bitterness, and mockery. The vibration of his throat was felt by everyone nearby.
He hurled the head aside toward one of the heroines—an empress and the hero's fiancée.
Without another glance, he fixed his gaze on the Demon King and spoke:
"Everyone… retreat."
His voice spread across the battlefield. Though still hoarse, it carried an absolute command. The air trembled under its force.
Many did not wish to obey, yet they retreated. The demons, however, were no statues. They pounced, tearing into them once more, and the meat grinder resumed—blood spraying through the air, staining everything.
Neither the Demon King nor the black-armored warrior moved. They stood facing one another, their auras colliding. The Demon King's aura was clearly superior, yet the warrior did not yield. His presence continued to rise, the air trembling with surging power.
At last, the Demon King spoke.
"I did not expect to find a human of this level… Even that clown who called himself a hero never reached you."
His voice was calm and powerful, filled with royal authority. The air around him grew heavy with his presence. His long crimson hair was wild and spiked, his terrifying red eyes gleamed, his skin was tinted the color of blood, and black horns jutted from his head. His armor was crimson and black, and he stood with his hands behind his back.
"It is an honor to be recognized by the Demon King, Antares."
The atmosphere grew unbearably tense, heat crashing as their auras clashed.
"Oh? You know my name, human?"
"And who does not know you—Antares, King of Destruction?"
"Hahahaha… Very well. Tell me your name."
"Ares. My name is Ares."
"A good name. You are worthy of the honor of fighting me."
Antares briefly considered subjugating Ares, but upon sensing his will and resolve, he understood it was impossible. Instead, he decided to enjoy crushing that resolve.
"An honor indeed."
Though Ares surpassed the fallen hero, he knew well that he lacked divine protection. This would be a fight to the death against the Demon King himself. From the very beginning, he would use everything.
His aura erupted violently, spreading outward, radiating lethal heat and the sharp stench of blood.
"Asura Domain."
He planted his sword before him and released his domain. Then, calmly, he retrieved a medicinal pill.
"The Thousand-Year Pill."
A pill capable of accelerating regeneration—even restoring severed limbs—replenishing aura and drastically increasing strength. Its danger was well known: once its effects ended, the user would be completely paralyzed.
He swallowed it in one gulp.
The moment it slid down his throat, his power skyrocketed to monstrous levels. His domain expanded, and the air became saturated with crushing energy.
"Raphael, carry out my request."
High in the sky, a formation of angels led by their commander descended, casting layered enhancements upon him—speed, strength, endurance, and holy power. His aura surged even higher. His body screamed under the strain; the heat and pressure crushed everything nearby.
"And now… the final step."
"Forbidden Art: Black Star."
He began chanting. Black runes formed around him, flowing through his body. His power spiked yet again—but he had reached his absolute limit. At most, he would endure for one hour. The air burned with the stench of scorched iron and blood.
Antares watched without intervening. He could have stopped it easily, but he wanted to see what the human would do. Though surprised, he quickly regained his composure. In the end, it was nothing more than a small trick in his eyes.
"Are you prepared to sacrifice your life to kill me and save them?"
His voice echoed across the battlefield—no, across the entire continent.
Those still fighting heard him. Hope ignited. Soldiers began to counterattack. Dust, blood, and flames mingled in the air.
"No," Ares replied calmly. "I am not sacrificing my life for anyone… but for myself."
"How so?"
"Because I am not challenging you—I am challenging my fate. To prove to myself and to everyone else that even if I am not the chosen hero, I deserve to stand in his place."
"Hahahaha… How fascinating. Very well—show me how you fight against fate."
Ares took a deep breath.
Behind him appeared an illusory figure—a man with four faces and eight arms, each wielding a weapon, moving like living masses of blood.
It was a blood-soaked Asura battle spirit.
Merged with the Asura Domain, Ares became terrifyingly powerful. Every being that fell within the domain had its blood absorbed to heal him, and its soul consumed to strengthen his battle spirit and aura. Ares became the sovereign of war—a calamity incarnate. The earth trembled beneath his feet.
He launched himself toward Antares.
And the battle between them began.
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