The blackened sun burned fiercely, its scorching light unveiling a world long concealed beneath illusion.
This phenomenon reshaped existence itself.
The ground we once tread upon became an ossuary for countless lives.
The seas that stretched beyond the horizon and curled around distant peninsulas turned into tides of spreading malevolence.
The sky—once a boundless and beautiful expanse higher than all things—collapsed into a horrifying, shattered nightmare.
...
A dying figure stood alone upon the rough black soil. He wore deep, dark noble attire, as though it were the very embodiment of the corruption that had unfolded.
Tick… Tick…
A faint sound disturbed him. With that hollow emptiness inside his chest, he reached toward its source—only to realize it was the sound of his own blood. And he responded to it… differently.
In a state like his, fear and the instinct to cling to life should have surfaced. But that was meaningless, because…
Before him stood several figures who had surrounded him in a half-circle from the very beginning—an unpleasant sight to the dying man.
They were all truly mad. To gather so many of them just to capture one person like him…
Perhaps that was what someone else would think if they stood in his place. Yet it was only natural.
After all, they were the strongest figures of this era.
What was truly unnatural was not their pursuit of him—but the fact that they stood together.
Such a scene was something rarely witnessed. Those who knew their true natures found it strange.
They were individuals who could never stand one another—each driven by towering egos and boundless pride. Yet when it came to their shared objective, they cast all of that aside.
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend." as an ancient adage says.
They had sacrificed effort, thought, and even their own dignity. Some had resorted to cruel methods without hesitation. All that effort had led to this very moment.
Now, this was the moment they had truly awaited. And yet, what they saw before them was merely an expressionless face.
No trace of fear touched his features, as though none of it weighed upon him.
Still impervious. Impassive. Shameless. Resolute.
Even though his chance of survival was nearly zero.
...
"Surrender yourself, Monarch of Destruction, Ezhar! It is useless to resist. Your long life will end here."
Hearing the solemn declaration from the blonde knight woman before him—a grand swordsmaster—he looked at her as though she were nothing more than a child telling a joke.
Surrender. Resignation. Acceptance.
Those were meaningless feelings to him.
Emotions that suppressed the will to live.
Emotions that erected boundaries against growth.
Emotions that exposed weakness before others.
They stood in complete opposition to his purpose. To harbor such feelings would only corrupt the path he had chosen.
Perhaps, to others, such feelings held their own value. But to someone who had lived as long as he had, their worth was no more than one in five.
It was not because he was a man obsessed with results, benefits, or profit.
Rather, it was only natural for peoples to pursue what they deemed valuable—what would ultimately bring them happiness.
That was precisely his obsession. to chase his final hope, to attain a happiness that felt eternal.
"Tell me, miss," he said calmly, "if someone is given the choice between happiness and suffering… are they truly free to choose, no matter what their answer may be?"
He questioned her. whose answer was already obvious, not to mock, nor to belittle.
It was evident from his indifferent expression.
As he awaited her reply, he extended his hand forward.
The simple motion alone sent a ripple of dread through them.
Even the slightest movement he made released a thin, terrifying aura into the air.
"What are you saying?! Of course everyone has the right to choose!"
A faint tremor slipped into her voice, yet she forced herself to answer in accordance with her conviction.
"Then the same applies to me."
He raised his hand toward the sky, as though he could grasp the nightmare sky themselves.
But before his fingers could close—They stopped.
Their spells had already reached him.
Golden chains, as thick as an arm, bound his body. Branches of an ancient tree coiled tightly around him. And beyond that, gravity itself pressed down upon him with crushing force, so intense that even lifting his little finger felt as though it would shatter.
"What are you going to do with this chance at life, Ezhar!?"
The shout came from afar.
From the silhouette, one could make out a scholar of magic, his face marked by heavy eyelids behind a pair of glasses, loose strands of hair falling untidily around his temples.
Let thunder carve its scripture upon bone,
Let banners drown in ash and fading light—
Another voice resounded in answer. But this was no ordinary shout.
It was a sacred technique—Song of War—a blessed chant that weakened foes while strengthening allies. A truly extraordinary art.
Amid the reverberating hymn, four silhouettes emerged, closing in on him at a speed rivaling sound itself.
"This is our chance!!"
"I'll take his right arm!"
"Seriously!? Guys!"
"So the madman will finally die!"
They dashed forward, a knight in full plate, a martial arts master, a red-haired female archmage, and the blonde knight. their speed racing even against sound itself. In less than a fraction of a second, they had surrounded Ezhar from every direction.
Accepting the attack might have seemed inevitable. but he refused.
Ezhar forced his arm to move. Even if it meant crushing it further, he was certain he could counterbalance the damage with his healing magic, though not perfectly.
Slash... Slash...
Thud... Thud...
Fwosssh...
Three forms of ruin filled his vision —a strike to cleave, a blow to crush, and fire magic to incinerate. Anyone struck by them was certain to death.
And yet... Not a single attack touched him.
At some unnoticed moment, he had switched places with the martial artist. They had turned their attacks on their own ally.
Tch…
They did not falter despite failing to strike Ezhar—though in doing so, They had stopped their attacks, having nearly struck their own ally.
The knight seized the narrow opening at once. He pivoted and slashed sideways toward Ezhar, who appeared momentarily unguarded, standing where the martial artist had been only an instant before.
Zhiiing...
He attempted to follow through with another strike. But the blade cut through only once. Severing the fingers of Ezhar's outstretched left hand.
His body froze mid-motion. The binding spell that had once restrained Ezhar had shifted. And now, it was restraining them instead.
What?! … When?! How was his spell that fast?!
That was the thought shared among them as realization struck.
Meanwhile, Ezhar distanced himself, carefully maintaining space as though preparing something. From a dimensional rift, he retrieved an artifact—a crystalline necklace shimmering in rainbow hues.
"What are you doing!? Don't let him complete it!"
The scholar of magic shouted, his voice trembling.
"He's attempting a ritual tied to the Cycles of the World! If he succeeds, he'll undergo regression or reincarnation again—just like in his previous lives!" he cried out, his warning shaking with both fear and pain.
Ugh… ugh…
Damn it. None of us expected him to bypass the magic we cast with cursed spells.
Looking at the other mages and the priest who had just tried to restrain him, they all writhed in agony. He had effortlessly countered all of their spells.
Meanwhile, the rest began to regroup, recalling that they could still move and prepare their attacks.
"Do not toy with World Magic, Ezhar!!"
The red hair archmage who had tried to strike earlier, unwilling to show shame despite failing as a "one of the greatest genius Mages" now stepped forward to take the lead.
Those who had planned to attack together hesitated, but in an instant…
Ezhar swiftly raised his hand toward the sky and activated his artifact.
Creak… Creak…
He was truly insane.
Every one of them lifted their heads toward the nightmare sky.
Seeing this, they didn't know how to react. fear or awe.
The Nightmare sky shattered like a broken mirror, cracking in impossible patterns.
Terrifying yet, mesmerezing
This was a sight entirely new to them, even to those considered the strongest of their era.
But that did not mean they were weak, nor was their title an empty one. Their reputation was well deserved.
Towering mountains, vast and deep oceans, skies stretching full of clouds—they could be split apart in an instant.
Disasters that once terrified humanity? Now they could summon them at will. Earthquakes that leveled cities. Tsunamis that swallowed coastlines. Storms that tore everything apart. They could command it all.
Entire villages could vanish in a blink. One of them could end a war or turn it into a massacre with a mere thought. They could manipulate governments, for what could possibly resist absolute power?
Taming high-level magical beasts, creatures considered incarnations of god's emotions? Naturally, it was effortless for them.
They could even wield World Magic to manipulate space, shifting territories at will. manipulate time, advancing, slowing, reversing it through regression or reincarnation. or command the very components of the world, mastering elements and the forces of nature.
Yet even World Magic had its limits. Simply being able to use it was extraordinary, but they had honed their control to perfection. That was how insane their power truly was.
They were called walking disasters, so formidable that none could match them, until someone appeared to turn it all upside down.
A force capable of wreaking destruction as vast as any disaster could be countered by him. And doing so felt as effortless as passing a ball in a game—one in which no one had yet lost.
Every scheme they had meticulously crafted was reversed, as though he were redirecting the very ball they had set in motion, always holding a trump card ready against them.
At times it was painful, at times challenging.
How strange, the relationship he shared with them.
Even now, they could not fully unleash their power, restrained by the domain Ezhar controlled, which manipulated the authority of magic around him. Yet in battle, they could still dominate.
Though they had lost positional advantage to him, their hope was not extinguished. There were still ways to prevail. They believed that eventually, the game of passing the ball would end... and it would be him who would lose.
But what awaited them was not victory.
It was Ezhar's trump card. He had done something far beyond the bounds of their expectations.
For what he unleashed was not mere destruction—the kind of disaster the strongest of their era could summon.
No, it felt far more dangerous. Like an apocalypse.
It was then they realized they had invoked the wrong fate by opposing him, a fate that would bring the game of passing the ball to a disastrous end.
Aware of the looming threat, they the archmages—tried to alter the course of events, manipulating space and time with World Magic.
But what power did they truly have? Every network of their spells had been severed the moment the Nightmare Sky shattered.
Yet they refused to surrender to this fate. Each of them shared a single goal: to stop Ezhar before he could complete whatever ritual this was, and prevent the destruction of the world.
The world trembled violently. Distances that should have been close between them stretched unnaturally wide.
The sky, filled with the aura of nightmares, now shattered and fell toward the surface, truly like fragments of a glass mirror, beautiful in its horror, as though the world itself was crumbling.
Beyond the broken sky lay only a dense darkness, seeming capable of devouring anything in its path.
No matter what happened, they continued to press on toward Ezhar.
The stakes were not merely their lives, but the very existence of this world.
But they were too late to realize that running, once as fast as sound. now felt like moving through waves of slowing aura, almost as if mocked. Even those flying with magic seemed rejected by the magic itself
Every time the aura waves washed over them, their bodies went numb, as if disconnected—like their nerves had been shattered.
One Knight, resigned yet determined, pushed forward, followed by the others. They forced their way through the walls of waves aura, feeling their nerves fail, muscles tear, and bones crack.
Hope had all but vanished.
He reached the point directly in front of Ezhar, preparing one final swing… yet...
Ugh… Ugh…
Ezhar had fractured the space before him.
The rupture spread outward, striking most of those who had desperately tried to approach him, rendering their efforts utterly futile.
Their bodies cracked with ease, following the jagged lines of broken space itself.
Despair began to haunt them.
There was no hope left.
"Why are you doing this, Ezhar?! This world doesn't deserve such an end!"
He let the question pass without response, as though it were nothing. That silence only deepened the woman's despair.
"Why, Ezhar?! Just why?! Answer me!"
Her body finally gave in, collapsing to the ground, gravely wounded. several others falling behind her in the same ruined state.
Ugh… Ugh...
Yet one figure still coughed up blood among those who lay clearly lifeless.
"Ha… how laughable," he muttered with a wide, strained smile. From his attire, he appeared to be a master archer. "What a laughable death."
He drew a ragged breath.
"End this charade, Ezhar… What is your dream, truly? What could possibly justify turning the world into its sacrifice?"
With that final question, his breath began to fade.
"My dream?…" Ezhar echoed softly.
As though there were no point in telling a dying man. That was the impression one might draw. Yet beneath his indifferent expression, his true thoughts remained impossible to discern.
"My dream is like a mirror," he said calmly. "It cannot be reached in this present world."
Ugh… ugh…
Even on the brink of death, the archer remained resolute, as though that answer alone could grant him peace.
"I want that mirror to become real."
Hahaha...
The archer let out a weak laugh.
"Haha… what on earth goes on inside that head of yours? I truly don't understand at all. Perhaps it's because I'll be dead soon." He smiled, turning his confusion into a final joke, as one last attempt to comfort himself.
His shattered body and ruined organs ensured he died where he fell.
…
Realizing that he alone remained in that space, Ezhar gazed upon the scene before him, almost as though this devastation were his moment of rest.
Creak… Creak…
The skies, the oceans, the land—All of it splintered.
Every living being—Animals, Plants, even Humans.
Including himself…
They fractured, just like glass breaking apart.
"A new world will be reborn," he murmured quietly. "The hope of my dream world."