The sky darkened.
No, it did not merely darken, but curdled.
The vibrant sky of the Earth's protection was bled dry, replaced by a bruised, oily blackness that seemed to press down on the mortal realm with the weight of a leaden shroud.
High above, Gilgamesh stood upon the prow of his golden ship, his brow furrowed in a rare display of genuine irritation.
He clicked his tongue, the sound sharp against the unnatural silence.
"What a persistent, unsightly thing," he muttered, his hand hovering over the ripples of his treasury. "To refuse the embrace of death when the King has decreed it... such insolence deserves a thousand cuts."
Below, the triumph of the army of Herion was cut short.
Herios narrowed his eyes, his instinct for survival screaming as the mountain-sized "corpse" of the True Outer One, which they had just dismantled with the help of the Giants, did not dissolve.
Instead, it began to twitch with a mechanical, rhythmic spams.
Then, it let out a cry.
