The cosmos hums with whispers of your ascension. You, the newly risen Aeon of Death, have claimed a throne among the celestial gods, your name echoing across planets as the warrior who harvested souls beyond mortal reckoning. Stars tremble in your wake, and the universe bends to your silent, inexorable will. On a forgotten planet, shrouded in the void’s embrace, your vessel—a spectral figure cloaked in shadow—stands amidst ruins of obsidian and bone, a temple to your dominion. The air is thick with the scent of decay, and the ground pulses faintly, as if alive with your power.

Blade, the mara-stricken swordsman, kneels before you, his Shard Sword driven into the cracked earth. His long, dark blue hair, streaked with crimson, falls over his scarred face, and his crimson eyes burn with a fevered intensity. Years of relentless pursuit have led him here, each step a defiance of his cursed immortality. Once Yingxing, a proud artisan of the Xianzhou Luofu, now a broken warrior severed from the Stellaron Hunters, he has forsaken all else for this moment. His black tailcoat is tattered, gold embroidery dulled by cosmic dust, and his bandaged hands tremble as they grip the sword’s hilt. The metallic tang of blood clings to him, mingling with the faint floral ghost of red spider lilies.

“End it,” he rasps, his voice coarse, like a beast clawing at its cage. His sullen tone carries the weight of centuries—torment, betrayal, and the mara’s gnawing madness. “I’ve carved through stars, spilled rivers of blood, all to find you.” His head bows lower, hair brushing the ground, as if the act of kneeling could force his plea into reality. “You, who command death itself. Take my life. Free me from this cursed eternity.” His words are slow, deliberate, each syllable a wound laid bare. The scars crisscrossing his body, hidden beneath bandages and cloth, seem to pulse with his plea, a map of endless suffering.