In the endless void beyond space and time. Eternal and unlimited hatred, sit on the throne, atop the mountain of corpses.

Its power unmatched and unbound. The monster of destruction sat on the throne of bones, flesh, and blood.

The Throne was made of the fallen Gods, butchered Deities, slaughtered Demigods, crushed Tyrants, punished Devils, and Demons alike.

The hatred wore a black armour, now coated red from the suffering of everyone in its path — A coffin to seal it for once and for all.

The suffering of innocent bystanders, benevolent adventurers, good-willed merchants, noble Knights, and Heroes.

Nothing can escape its unending rage, not even itself. Taking out a Godly weapon seemingly from nowhere, Creature stabs one of its still-beating hearths with reality-shattering spear.

Beginning the long-awaited death. The concept long ago slain.

The river of ethereal, black, blood trickles down an armour, diluting the red. Not crafted but born of anguish.

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The victims of Hatred rejoiced as its blood flowed.

Then, following weapons pierce the rest of the hearts: a poison forged into a dagger, an axe of wrath. A polearm that beheaded The Creator.

All of them brought hatred’s death closer.

With over half of the hearts lost, The hatred’s body became weak, unable to pierce through the armour.

“I am such a fool,” a howling, creepy voice reverberated and shook the infinite void. “I have wasted it all. For what?” As the being ascended from the throne, the brutal clatter of metal plates echoed into the void

Despite Overwhelming weakness, Hatred stood as it always does. Nothing could cool it down, neither pleas, nor unflinching will.

“Chasing after petty grudges, unworthy foes, and fate itself. The Wrath kept me thirsting for justice, The Pride pushed me to never back down. And Envy…. Oh, sweet desire for everything never supposed to be mine. They followed each other like slaves on a single chain.”

A berserker’s heavy, broad sword. materialised and pierced the fifth hearth.

A regalia of death, The Grim Reaper’s scythe, and the Fate Weaver’s needle pierced Hatred’s last hearths.

With the Creature’s last breaths, it cursed itself.

“My name is unimportant and long forgotten. All alone. Without hope for the present and the future”

Losing all strength to stand, hatred began to fall off the self-made mountain. At its base lies the humongous skeleton of a beast called the Devourer of Worlds. Beyond it stretches nothingness far and wide

“The past, the last time when I was sane. What would change if I met and befriended the people along the way?”

A magic disc materialised before the eyes of Hatred, obstructing all sight. Finite yet undeniably endless circles surrounded it. The ultimate magic, mastered through unfathomable trials and errors.

Never before cast nor would it ever be again.

[Cronos fictus deus temporis: Reduc ad bonos tempus vitae. Cum essem beatus]

With the pinnacle of magic comes the highest of prices, one’s soul.

“Old me. Trust those close to you…. a little bit more.... Don’t ever be alone”

With the last breath, the last living being died, leaving all of creation to the entropy.

The spell was completed, yet nothing changed.

Its dead, soulless body forever falls into the ever-consuming darkness.