Beneath the cover of night, in a barren landscape strewn with gravel, nurous figures cloaked in black robes advanced silently in a single direction. Their path was lit by a mysterious twilight glow emanating from an unseen source, casting their long, night-like robes in a light that seed both real and surreal. As they traversed the barren land, these solitary figures rged into streams of twilight, weaving through the darkness like rivers converging in the heart of a desolate wilderness of death, where they encircled a solemn gathering.
At the center of this wilderness stood a monuntal gate, its triangular doors imposing yet silent. Duncan initially mistook it for a re hill, but in an instant, he found himself standing before it, awestruck by its majestic rise from the ground, its triangular form sealed shut. Dark red veins sprawled across the door’s surface like blood vessels, ensnaring it with the appearance of chains.
This gate, it seed, was the barrier to the realm of death, now overseen by a deity seated on a throne before it. This deity towered over Duncan, his stature surpassing anyone Duncan could imagine, including Ta Ruijin. Even while seated, the deity’s form was colossal, nearly as large as a house itself.
Adorned in a tattered black robe as dark as the night itself, wrapped with dark red thorns, the deity’s presence was as imposing as it was mysterious. Under the long shadows cast by his robe, his face remained hidden, indistinct as if he were no more than a silhouette shaped by the fabric—echoing the teachings of the Death Church’s holy scriptures:
“Death is a faceless shadow, omnipresently lurking within the shroud of darkness. When you gaze upon Him, He gazes back at you.”
Yet, this once formidable embodint of death lay defeated, a grotesque, thorn-like short sword impaled through his chest, anchoring him to his dark throne. His hood was askew, suggesting that even in his final monts, he cast a longing glance towards the triangular gate, the very symbol of the cycle of life and death.
This tableau was akin to a self-inflicted demise, a murder where the victim was also the perpetrator.
Among the “Four Dead Gods,” this scene was unprecedented: at the threshold of death and decay, Bartok had enacted his own end, a second act of “self-destruction.”
Surrounding the gate, the twilight-clad figures stood as still as stone, resembling petrified tombstones in their motionlessness. Yet, amidst them, a path remained, as if intentionally left clear for those who would co to witness, stretching from the wilderness to the dark throne.
Leading the way was the towering gatekeeper, with Duncan and Agatha in tow. They made their way through the path flanked by the silent phantoms. The twilight glow from the figures bathed them in its light; Duncan remained unaffected, but Agatha, whose form was originally ethereal and translucent, began to solidify under the twilight’s touch, appearing montarily to possess a physical body.
Having reached their journey’s climax, Duncan and his party halted before a majestic throne under the watchful eyes of the towering gatekeepers. The leader of these imposing figures offered a silent nod of acknowledgnt before seamlessly rejoining his comrades along the sides of the throne room.
Duncan raised his gaze to the entity seated upon the throne, a presence more formidable than any they had encountered before, including Ta Ruijin. This was the entity known as the world’s first and ultimate deceased, a being of imnse power and mystery.
It beca clear why the falsely “deceased” Sailor, brought forth by Agatha’s magic, had failed to command the attention of these gatekeepers. They were guardians of the true end, the genuine deceased who commanded the throne.
Agatha, with a mixture of reverence and curiosity, stared intently at this dark-clad deity. It was a mont of profound significance for her. As a gatekeeper herself, imbued with the mories of those devout followers of the Death Church, she had never imagined she would stand in this sacred place. It was a realm believed unreachable by the countless devout throughout their lifetis, let alone witness such a montous event—the ceremonial end of the Grim Death God.
After a long and reflective silence, Agatha finally turned to Duncan, her voice tinged with complexity, “Captain, what do we do now?”
Before Duncan could formulate a response, another gatekeeper, who had been standing vigil by the throne, approached them. This spectral figure, towering and silent, handed Duncan an ancient and finely crafted hourglass before returning to his station. Duncan recognized the hourglass, identical to one he had seen in the final resting place of the Leviathan Queen, yet this one was devoid of sand.
Puzzled and intrigued, Duncan looked up to inquire about the hourglass, but was instead drawn into a mysterious understanding by a whispering breeze. Under Agatha’s watchful eye, he activated the hourglass. A flicker of starlight-infused fla danced at his fingertips before rging into the hourglass, reviving the once-recorded vitality in a spectacle of flowing flas and reversing sands.
In the blink of an eye, the environnt around Duncan shifted dramatically. He found himself standing atop a small mound, bathed in a soft, ethereal light against the backdrop of an impenetrable night. Around him, wildflowers blood, their fragrance adding to the surrealism of the mont. The serene silence was punctuated by the sound of a shovel cutting through soil. Duncan turned to see a frail, elderly man diligently digging a shallow grave, his actions reflecting an eternity of labor in the soft, black earth.
This unexpected scene, unfolding under the guidance of the ancient hourglass, hinted at a deeper connection between life, death, and the realms beyond, inviting Duncan and Agatha into the mysteries that lay at the heart of existence itself.
As Duncan absorbed the somber beauty of the scene before him, he approached the old man who was tirelessly digging into the earth.
“I’m here… I apologize, I might have arrived a bit late,” Duncan offered tentatively, breaking the silence.
“It’s not late,” the old man responded without pausing his work, his voice steady and imbued with an ageless wisdom. “Death is never early nor late. It arrives precisely when it’s supposed to. Your timing is just right.”
He gestured towards a small mound of soil beside him, where, unnoticed until now, an additional shovel lay resting against the dark, piled earth. “Can you lend a hand?”
Wordlessly, Duncan stepped forward, picked up the shovel, and began to dig alongside the old man, their actions in silent harmony.
For a ti, the only sounds were the rhythmic digging and the soft shifting of soil, a solemn lody on the mound.
After a while, the frail figure broke the silence, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia. “The other three… It’s been ages since I last saw them. Since then, our only communication has been through the remnants left by the second guide. How are they?”
“They’re well,” Duncan replied, his voice calm and steady as he continued his task. “I’ve entered into a pact with them. We’ll reunite in the new world.”
A hint of warmth flickered in the old man’s deanor. “That’s good to hear… A reunion is sothing to look forward to.”
After a brief pause, Duncan cast a curious glance at his companion. “Is this how you truly look?”
“No,” the old man admitted without ceasing his digging, his tone reflective. “I have never had a face, not since the beginning. But I thought… since I’m about to depart, I should at least leave behind a semblance of one.”
“You have no face?” Duncan echoed, intrigued and sowhat bewildered by the revelation.
“Yes, I am distinct from the others. I am ‘Death’ itself,” the old man confided softly, a profound solemnity in his voice.
Duncan remained silent, allowing the gravity of the statent to sink in, waiting for the old man to elaborate.
“Every end of a world is unique. So linger for years, others much longer. And then there are those… civilizations that fight valiantly, employing every conceivable ans to delay their inevitable demise, sotis even for a century,” the old man mused, continuing his labor.
“In my world, the end ca swiftly—so swiftly that there was no ti for decay or defiance. Yet, it wasn’t so abrupt that people couldn’t perceive their doom. It was a pace that allowed everyone to witness the approach of their final mont.
“At that instant, every soul t their end. Death echoed through ti and space, unsettling even the stars on the brink of extinction. In the last breath of my world, ‘Death’ beca the brightest, most universal, the sole entity to erge in the entirety of the cosmos.
“And in that fleeting second, everything beautiful and ugly, every fear and act of bravery, every resilience and fragility inherent in human nature and thought, was encapsulated.
“From that culmination of death, I ca into being. Upon opening my eyes for the first ti, I watched everything collapse before . By the second blink, all that remained of the world I had glimpsed only once was scorched, chaotic ashes.”
With a asured push, the old man drove his shovel into the earth, skillfully excavating another portion of soil from the grave before him, and flung it aside.
“I’ve been at this task for ages, ever since the haven was conceived. I’ve toiled away at digging this pit, a labor that seed almost endless – after all, vanquishing death itself is no minor feat. Yet, here you are, aiding , Fire Usurper.”
His gaze then turned introspective, as if pondering an uncharted future. “Don’t you yearn to witness the new world? There might still be a path open to us…”
“No, but thank you for the offer,” the old man responded with a gentle shake of his head, scooping and discarding another handful of earth. He then paused to et Duncan’s gaze with a serene clarity. “I’m unlike others you may know; this much you might have surmised. I am not a relic of the old world, but rather a creation of the Great Annihilation, forged from those fiery ashes. Thus, the duty to dictate this world’s decay, to establish its cycle of life and death, fell upon alone – the haven necessitated such a ‘recycling system.’ But in the forthcoming world, the decay of things should not be under the dominion of a similar ‘deity.’ Even the suggestion of such a possibility is flawed. Let all that erged from the Great Annihilation remain with it.”
A reflective silence enveloped Duncan as he cast another shovelful of soil into the grave.
“Do you harbor any regrets?”
“No,” the old man replied with a serene smile, “I’ve accomplished all that was required of . Now, to relish an eternal, undisturbed rest is the finest paynt for ‘Death’. But for you, I offer a piece of counsel.”
Duncan ceased his movents, attentive.
“Refrain from treating sacrifice lightly. Though it may seem odd coming from ,” the old man continued, locking eyes with Duncan, “I detect on you the scent of martyrdom…a scent all too familiar to , yet it ought not to cling to you.”
Duncan stood in silence, absorbing the mont.
When he looked again, the frail old man and the second shovel were no longer beside him. It was just Duncan standing there, alone.
The deity of death had taken his rest in the grave, his form nearly enveloped by the earth. He closed his eyes in peace, as if he had been resting there since ti immorial.
After a mont steeped in silence, Duncan bent forward once more, continuing his solemn duty of covering the grave with soil, carrying out the last rites for a being as ancient and as pivotal as the concept of death itself.
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