At the edge of existence, where light and shadow clash in eternal struggle, an unimaginable force had gathered—legions of Angels with blazing halos, Demons wreathed in searing flame, Dragons whose wings blotted out the sky, and warriors of countless forgotten races, all united in a single, unbreakable formation.
Their eyes burned with fury, their weapons thirsted for blood, and their collective might shook the very earth beneath them.
Before them, rising from the heart of an endless blizzard, stood the obsidian fortress—a lone bastion of defiance atop the frozen mountain.
"ATTACK!"
The war cry thundered across the battlefield, a sound that could have shattered the heavens themselves.
Yet, the castle remained eerily serene, untouched by fear, its towering spires piercing the storm like the claws of a slumbering god.
Upon its walls stood its defenders—soldiers clad in darkness, their black-and-crimson wings spread like banners of death.
They gazed upon the approaching horde with chilling indifference, as if the concept of fear had been carved from their souls.
Three figures cloaked in black, each with nine pairs of black-red wings—the Seraphs of Death—knelt before the man seated on the throne.
He watched them with bored eyes, idly tapping his fingers on the armrest.
"Let them come."
"Your will be done, Eternal Reaper."
And so, the war began.
Hundreds fell.
Thousands perished.
The angels in the castle died one by one, their bodies vanishing without a trace.
Even the invading army burned their own dead, leaving no remains behind.
In the end, only the three Seraphs of Death remained, bleeding and broken, and the Eternal Reaper, still sitting on his throne, unmoved.
Then, a woman draped in a majestic emerald gown—radiant and regal—walked through the throne hall, her gaze locked onto the figure seated upon the throne with cold disdain.
The Seraphs of Death tensed, awaiting their master's command, but the Eternal Reaper remained lounging lazily, unmoved.
"How long will you sit idle, watching your people perish, O Great Blodmire?"
The God of Death, amused, met the eyes of the woman before him.
"Lifan... They will exist forever through me. Their deaths are the highest honor they could attain."
Lifan—Nature's Deity, the Goddess of Life—stared back in disgust.
She had united Angels and Demons, rallied entire armies, all to challenge him... yet Blodmire hadn't even lifted a finger in response.
"Then... give me your Essence," she demanded.
"Let me end this pointless war."
Blodmire smirked.
"Are you certain?"
With a slow, indifferent motion, he raised his hand—and a swirling crimson orb materialized above his palm.
"Then take it."
But before Lifan, the Goddess of Life, could take the Essence of Death, chaos erupted—the Demons turned on the Angels, slaughtering them without mercy.
"Stop Lifan!"
"Open the Abyss!"
The Abyssal Demon Gods tore open a portal to their cursed realm.
Blodmire, still lounging on his throne, watched the carnage with dark amusement.
Bloodshed, madness, and endless slaughter—these were the only things that entertained him.
Every fallen Demon and Angel rose again, resurrected by his power, only to keep fighting.
With a mere thought, he could have commanded them to turn on the Gods themselves... but he didn't.
He never would.
Because Blodmire was just an observer—a silent watcher who reveled in the cycle of Life and Death.
And yet... deep inside, he burned with envy.
For he, the God of Death, would never know what it meant to truly live... or die.
The Abyssal Demon God slowly pushed the portal toward Blodmire, still seated on his throne.
Yet the God of Death did nothing to stop it—he only smiled.
Then, he turned to his three Seraphs—the Seraph of Blood, the Seraph of the Dead, and the Seraph of Souls.
"Go... and let me see the world through your eyes."
The three Seraphs, kneeling before him, gazed up with unwavering devotion, ignoring the chaos around them.
They understood what it meant to hold the Essence of Death—for they each carried a fragment of it themselves.
But only Blodmire, who had existed since the dawn of time, could bear the full weight of Death's essence...
...without being consumed by madness.
"As you command, Eternal Reaper."
Blodmire smiled, his gaze drifting to the approaching portal.
With one final glance at the warring gods in his throne room...
He—and his throne—disappeared without a trace.