The Rise of the God of Death
Chapter 3: A New Evening
Eight hundred years had passed since Daimon's fall. The world began to forget. Peace stretched across the omniverses—but some wounds never healed.
In the shadowed mountains of Central Planet, Omniverse 8, a lone soldier wandered. Faceless. Nameless. Forgotten by war. His armor rusted, body weak, soul tired. He sought nothing—only a place to die.
But fate had other plans.
As the sun sank behind jagged peaks, he found a hidden crevice. Something called to him—a strange humming, a pressure unlike any he'd felt.
He forced his way through the narrow passage. At the mountain's heart stood a sealed, cold, indestructible wall. The sound came from within.
Desperation drove him.
He struck the wall again and again, bleeding hands, broken blade.
Until finally—it cracked.
A shockwave of cursed energy knocked him back. The mountain trembled.
Inside, a broken altar lay cracked and aged by time. Floating above it, a ring of dark red aura pulsed like a heartbeat.
He stepped forward, entranced.
A whisper echoed:
"Take it… you deserve power…"
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the aura, it vanished. The altar exploded, the mountain collapsed, burying him beneath stone and flame.
He was dead.
But the aura vanished for a reason.
**
Meanwhile, in the forbidden wastelands of Omniverse 7—scarred and unhealed from ancient war—the sky remained stained, winds howled through blackened ruins. Here, Daimon had been sealed and defeated.
At the center of the ruin, something stirred.
A forgotten corpse, wrapped in black cloth, untouched for centuries.
Its eyes slowly opened.
A crimson glow pierced the dark. A breath was drawn.
Daimon… was not done.
The world would soon remember the weight of a god's return.