The eastern hill was the last place that still remembered green.
The grass had withered to gray straw under the Black Sun's long gaze, but a single stubborn patch clung near Lucian's grave—faint, brittle, refusing to die completely. Elias stood at its edge, the others a few paces behind: Elara with her arms wrapped tight around herself, Behemoth rooted like a broken pillar, Liora small and shadowless beside him.
The Black Sun had returned.
Not as a distant pinprick.
Not as a retreating threat.
As a second sky.
It filled the entire western horizon—perfect, absolute black, its violet rim now a thin, trembling halo that flickered like failing breath. The real sun had vanished behind it hours ago. Day had become night without stars. The temperature dropped steadily—cold seeping into bone, into stone, into memory.
The city below was silent.
No movement.
No voices.
Only the faint, dry rustle of wind moving through dead streets, through empty houses, through the husks of what had once been people.
Elias looked down—at the grave, at the dried flower, at the cracked stone marker.
Then he looked up—at the Black Sun.
Inside him, Abaddon spoke—not in words, but in weight.
A final, gentle pressure.
It is time.
Elias nodded once—slow, calm.
He stepped forward—away from the grave, away from the others—until he stood at the very crest of the hill, alone beneath the void.
The black-gold sigil at his chest ignited—not flame, not light, but something absolute.
His body began to change.
Not slowly.
Not painfully.
Inevitably.
Black veins surged outward—covering skin, covering bone, covering memory. Golden cracks flared one last time—bright, defiant—then went dark. His form stretched—taller, broader—until the boy was gone and something older stood in his place: horned, winged in eclipse, eyes twin voids that drank the last faint light.
Abaddon emerged.
Not as a possession.
Not as a conqueror.
As himself.
Towering.
Silent.
Final.
He looked down—at the small grave, at the three mortals who still stood, at the city that had once been Sanctum, at the world that had once refused him.
Then he looked up—at the Black Sun.
The void-disk pulsed once—answering.
Abaddon raised both arms—slow, deliberate.
The Black Sun descended.
Not crashing.
Not violent.
Gentle.
It settled over the horizon—then over the city—then over the hill—then over everything.
Darkness swallowed light.
Silence swallowed sound.
Nothing swallowed everything.
Continents cracked and crumbled—slowly, without drama.
Oceans boiled away in silent steam.
Mountains folded inward like paper.
The core of the planet cooled—quietly, inevitably.
No screams.
No fire.
No last prayers.
Just the end.
Abaddon stood at the center—towering, alone—watching as the last traces of blue vanished from the sky.
The world became a lifeless rock floating in darkness.
Then even the rock was gone.
Consumed.
Digested.
Silent.
The Black Sun pulsed once—final, satisfied—then faded into nothing.
Abaddon remained.
A single shape in endless black.
He looked down—at the place where a grave had once been, where three mortals had once stood, where a boy had once refused.
Nothing remained.
No stone.
No shadow.
No memory.
Only void.
Abaddon spoke—his voice the last sound in creation.
"It is finished."
Then even the voice was gone.
The screen went completely black.
A single line of white text appeared:
"The game is over.
Thank you for playing."
Then, in the darkness, the Entity's voice whispered one last time—soft, genderless, almost fond:
"…Shall we begin again?"
A single spark of light flickered in the endless black—Elias's original hazel eye color—before it too was swallowed.
Fade to black.
No sequel bait.
No hope.
The world is gone.
The End.