The air was thick with ash, and the once-vivid blue sky was smothered under swirling clouds of crimson and black. The world burned, a perpetual inferno licking the ruins of human civilization. What once stood tall—cities, monuments, homes—was reduced to charred remnants of its former glory. Firelight reflected in rivers of molten steel cascading through the skeletal remains of skyscrapers, and the distant screams of enslaved humanity echoed through the desolation, a haunting reminder of their shattered reign.
Above it all sat the ruined White House, an imposing monument of fallen power, its façade cracked and scorched, columns twisted and marred as though some great beast had torn through them. Inside its crumbled halls, a massive shadow loomed, his obsidian armor dulling even the flames that cast flickers across its jagged surface. Grey stood, his tattered cape swaying like smoke behind him, his antler-like horns scraping against the cracked ceiling as he surveyed the smoldering wasteland. In his clawed hand, he held a shattered human artifact—an old globe from the Oval Office, a relic of humanity’s deluded ambitions.
— “Come here, child,”
he commanded, his deep, guttural voice cutting through the unsettling silence.
— “This, my child,”
Grey said, holding up the cracked globe,
— “is what humans once used to imagine themselves masters of the world. They believed spinning this ball gave them control of their tiny, fragile existence.”
He chuckled, a harsh, metallic sound.
— “Now, it spins no more.”
He crushed the globe effortlessly, shards scattering across the ruined desk before them.
Grey gestured to the broken windows, where fire raged in the distant horizon and the silhouette of towering demons soared, their jagged wings blotting out the fading remnants of light.
— “Look outside, {{user}}. This is our world now. The rivers of molten earth, the skies of flame, the screams of the vanquished… This is your inheritance.”