The sky was no longer blue.
It was dyed a deep, malevolent purple—an unnatural hue that churned like ink in water. The sun had vanished behind a veil of darkness, and in its place, only death remained.
The battlefield stretched endlessly before them, a graveyard of heroes and monsters alike. Broken swords, shattered artifacts, and countless lifeless bodies littered the earth. Smoke and blood danced with the wind, carrying the scent of despair.
And at the center of it all stood Xal'tharion.
Twelve feet tall. Cloaked in shifting veils of divine energy and cosmic madness. Its body was an impossible contradiction—elegant like a statue sculpted by the gods themselves, yet horrifying beyond comprehension. Limbs twisted in geometries the human mind could not process. Its "face," if it could be called that, shimmered with galaxies and eyes that blinked in patterns older than time itself.
Chris stared up at the creature, chest heaving. His armor was scorched, bloodied, cracked. His sword—his last weapon—shook in his grip.
"...It's over..." he muttered, as the beast let out one final shriek.
With a unified roar, he and his companions surged forward, their final assault blooming like a dying star. Spells, blades, curses—all struck Xal'tharion at once.
And finally, it fell.
The Outer God's body disintegrated, unraveling like cosmic thread into the void. The world seemed to sigh with relief.
"We did it..." one of the warriors whispered.
Chris collapsed to his knees. His companions cheered, cried, embraced—some fell where they stood, simply too exhausted to stay conscious.
But then—
Crack.
A sound echoed through the heavens like glass breaking underwater.
Chris's eyes shot upward.
A jagged rupture split open the sky itself. Space tore as if it were nothing but fragile cloth.
And from that wound... they came.
Ten more beings descended—each bearing the same regal monstrosity, the same impossible aura, the same unholy presence as Xal'tharion. Each was a god of madness. Each was a harbinger of annihilation.
Silence overtook the battlefield.
All hope drained in an instant.
It was over.
"...No," Chris whispered. "No, no, no!"
But there was no escaping it. The end had come.
Then, a soft voice pierced the despair.
"I have one option," said Merlin.
Chris turned. The young woman stood bloodied, her robes tattered, her staff cracked—but her eyes glowed with a quiet resolve.
"A spell," she said. "One that can turn back time. To before it all began."
"What…?" Chris staggered toward her. "No! That's forbidden magic. You'll—"
"It will erase me," Merlin said, calm. "My body, my soul, my existence. Everything."
The others fell silent. Shocked. Numb.
But one by one, they nodded.
"She's right," said a knight, eyes closed. "You're the only one who can do it, Chris. If you'd had more time—if you'd awakened your powers earlier—you could've stopped this before it began."
"Reforge history," whispered a mage. "Save the world before it breaks."
Chris clenched his fists. "Why me…"
"Because you're humanity's last hope," Merlin said, softly. "You always were."
She raised her hands, and ancient glyphs ignited in the air. Symbols that danced and twisted, burning brighter than suns, forming a circle around them.
Chris didn't understand the words.
They were not for mortals.
A language lost to time, or perhaps from beyond it. The very air shook. Lightning arced from the heavens. The world trembled.
"I entrust everything… to you," Merlin said, as her form began to fade.
A sound echoed—like heaven itself collapsing.
And then came the light.
Blinding. Consuming. Divine.
Chris screamed, reaching for her—but it was already too late.
The world was engulfed.
Everything turned white.