Blood City was only the beginning.
The Guilds didn't understand that.
Not yet.
When Asura rose from the ashes of the first fallen city,
he was no longer a rogue threat.
No longer a rumor whispered in the shadows.
He became a tidal wave.
A plague.
A god of ruin marching across a dying world.
The second city fell in three hours.
Its Monarch fled before Asura even arrived.
The third city burned without a single clash of swords.
The fourth… didn't even resist.
Across the continent, panic spread faster than disease.
Guild alliances crumbled.
Treaties shattered.
Armies deserted their masters and offered their loyalty —
not to live.
But to avoid the inevitable.
Because it wasn't war Asura waged.
It was extinction.
The System flickered across his vision —
struggling to keep pace with the reality bending around him:
[World Threat Level: Unmeasurable.]
[Abyss Dominion: Expanding across 31% of known territories.]
[Worldbreaker Aura: Regional Instability Detected.]
[New Trait Acquired: Tyrant of Collapse.]
The skies turned black wherever he walked.
The soil cracked.
Sigil fields — once eternal, once stable — corroded into ash under his presence.
Even the natural laws twisted subtly,
as if reality itself was bowing its head.
The Guilds made a final attempt.
A desperate coalition of survivors.
Seven Monarch Candidates.
Three ancient Guild Masters.
Two Abyssal Sovereigns.
They assembled their armies on the Plains of Valor —
a place drenched in history and blood.
They swore oaths under shattered banners.
They invoked ancient Sigils of protection and annihilation.
They prepared for the final war.
And Asura came.
He walked alone across the horizon.
No army at his back.
No monsters, no banners, no trumpets.
Only him.
And the silence of a universe that had already decided.
At fifty miles, the outer Sigil walls cracked.
At twenty miles, the protective shields overloaded and exploded inward.
At five miles, entire battalions collapsed to the ground, clutching their heads, their Sigils imploding inside them.
At one mile, the air itself refused to move.
The world held its breath.
The coalition tried to fight.
The Monarch Candidates unleashed forbidden Sigils —
mass extinction spells, reality-splitting weapons, suicide charges.
All of it meaningless.
All of it forgotten before it even reached him.
Asura raised one hand.
And the Plains of Valor died.
Mountains collapsed into themselves.
Rivers boiled into mist.
Sigil towers shattered into cosmic dust.
The armies of humanity and abyss alike crumbled like sand sculptures before a hurricane.
Only the Guild Masters remained,
clutching broken artifacts,
faces frozen in the realization that their world had already ended.
One tried to speak.
One tried to beg.
One tried to run.
None succeeded.
With a thought, Asura unleashed the full magnitude of his Dominion.
The sky split open —
a yawning maw of endless darkness swallowing the heavens.
A new System message flickered into existence:
[Congratulations: Guild System Collapse Achieved.]
[All Monarch Authorities Nullified.]
[New Title Unlocked: Abyssal Overlord.]
Asura stood alone atop the ruins of an entire civilization.
The last echoes of defiance snuffed out.
The last banners burned.
The last illusions shattered.
He didn't roar in victory.
He didn't weep.
He simply existed.
And the world bent to his existence.
Across the dying continents, survivors whispered a single name.
Not as a curse.
Not as a prayer.
As a fact.
An inevitability.
A law.
Asura.
The Age of Kings had ended.
The Age of Guilds had ended.
The Age of Humanity had ended.
All that remained was the Reign of Asura.