Somewhere far away, in an otherworldly realm where only god-like beings existed, stood a lone man. His entire body was covered in a pitch-black, torn clown outfit, a deep hood drawn over his head and obscuring his face, the fabric ripped and shredded from head to toe as if time, darkness, or unseen claws had devoured its colors and form. The tatters hung loosely from him, stirring faintly in the cold, silent air.
The man's body radiated a pitch-black, smoke-like magical power, his aura slithering across the ground like living shadows that devoured every trace of light. Beneath the deep hood shadowing his face, his gaze burned cold, merciless, and suffocating—so overwhelmingly oppressive that anyone who met it would tremble as if already crushed beneath his fist. It was clear he did not belong to this world; he appeared as though he had crawled straight out of the abyss itself. He wasn't merely born of darkness—he was the darkness, sharpened into something far more dreadful.
Before him rose a massive gate—so vast and radiant that it seemed to pulse with divine power. The surface glowed with celestial light, engraved with ancient patterns that shifted like living stars. Even a single glance was enough to reveal its nature—this was the door to heaven, the forbidden sanctuary of the gods.
As he approached the gate, the guards—clad in divine, radiant armor as though the gods themselves had forged it—stepped forward to stop him. But the moment he lifted his head, their resolve shattered. A deep hood concealed most of his face, drowning his features in shadow, leaving only his eyes visible—pitch-black with ember-colored pupils that burned like the gaze of a demon. They barely managed to ask, "Who are you?" before their voices died in their throats. A single glance from him froze them in place, their bodies shivering uncontrollably as a suffocating terror wrapped around their souls. In that instant, they felt death breathing just one step behind them.
As he stepped through the ancient gates, the man moved silently past towering palaces and time-worn manors—monuments of a civilization long claimed by dust and divinity. The deeper he walked, the heavier the air became, until at last he reached the sanctuary's core: an ancient hall so vast and magnificent it seemed impossible for mortal hands to have shaped it. Only a god's divine will could have carved such majesty into existence.
Inside, cold shadows clung to the colossal pillars. At the far end of the hall, dominating everything, stood a throne of pure gold—radiant, oppressive, and carved with symbols of dominion. It was the seat of supreme judgement, where the highest god resided, and around it the thrones of lesser deities were arranged in a strict hierarchy.
The man—clad in tattered clothes and carrying an aura that twisted the very air—stood at the center of the hall. His presence alone felt wrong, like a stain spreading across a sacred canvas. As he lifted his head, a crooked, amused smile crept across his face.
Every god in the chamber froze.
Shock rippled through the divine council—ancient, immortal beings who had witnessed countless eras—yet even they recoiled at the sight of this intruder. Even the Supreme Being upon the golden throne stirred, his expression tightening ever so slightly.
The clownish stranger, drenched in a quiet madness, had dared to stand before them.
And for the first time in ages… the gods felt unease.
"How long has it been, my lord, since you last saw my face?" the man in tattered clothes asked, his voice low and steady.
The figure on the throne slowly lifted his gaze. Golden light curled around his form, yet his expression remained restrained—only a faint shimmer of nostalgia breaking through.
"Brother…"
Hearing that word spoken by the majestic being, the ragged man's lips curled into a subtle, crooked smirk.
"I'm glad you still remember me. Though let me correct you—I'm not your brother, but your half-brother."
"You're still upset with me… brother," the supreme being replied quietly.
The tattered man shook his head, his smile fading into a straight, unreadable expression. Every trace of emotion vanished into the shadows beneath his hood.
"Let's not dig up old wounds. I didn't come here for the past. I won't take more of your precious time." He paused, eyes turning cold and resolute.
"I've come because I need you to grant me a small request."
"He belongs to the Underworld, my lord—not here," said the man seated upon one of the divine chairs, his shining armor radiating blinding light. His name was Xerxes.
The man in tattered clothes slowly turned his gaze toward him. The air itself seemed to freeze as a killing intent seeped from his hooded form. Shadow swallowed his features completely, and an ancient, merciless rage ignited within his eyes.
"You do not decide where I belong," he said icily. "Know your place. And do not forget—this fragile prosperity you all cling to exists because of me. And if you have enjoyed life here enough, I will be more than happy to take you to the depths of Tartarus."
After casting that threat at the silver-armored Xerxes, the man shifted his focus back to the Supreme Being. His voice lowered, dark and restrained.
"Brother… for endless ages, I ruled the Underworld under your so-called punishment. I kept the abominations in chains. I strangled their rebellion before it could even draw its first breath. I fought for you in that putrid abyss—" his eyes burned with silent madness, "—and not once did I allow them to march upon this sanctuary."
His eyes ignited like dying stars, filled with ancient, ruinous madness.
"Not once," he said slowly, "did I allow them to ascend and stain this sanctuary with annihilation."
A dark pulse rippled through the hall as he took a slow step forward.
"For this service," he continued, his grin widening with savage intent, "I will not beg. I will claim my reward. Grant me my request… or I will simply take it myself."
Silence swallowed the hall.
At last, the Supreme Being spoke, his voice calm but heavy with authority.
"Speak, brother. What is it that you demand?"
The tattered man shifted his gaze to the beautiful woman seated upon one of the divine thrones beside Xerxes—the Goddess of Time. Her beauty was not merely physical; it was an otherworldly elegance that seemed to bend the very flow of existence around her. Silver-gold light shimmered faintly in her eyes, as if countless eras rested within their depths, and every subtle movement she made carried the quiet grace of eternity. Then he spoke, his voice low and unnervingly calm, as though the fate of worlds were nothing more than a trivial thought, "Reverse the mortal timeline—and grant your blessing to the one I have chosen."
"Have you lost all reason?" Xerxes thundered, rising slightly from his divine throne. "This act is forbidden." At his words, a ripple of uneasy murmurs spread through the divine hall as the other deities exchanged troubled glances.
"Silence, all of you," said the Supreme Being after a long, heavy moment of thought. Then, his voice calm yet absolute, he gave his order.
"I will grant your request—this one last time."
The Goddess of Time, who had been awaiting his response, inclined her head in solemn obedience.
"Thank you, my lord," the tattered man murmured as he turned his back to the throne. As he made his way out of the hall, he whispered, "Now it's getting more interesting." A slow, chilling smile carved itself across his face as he disappeared beyond the gates of the divine hall.