They say gods do not bleed… but that day, one fell, spilling a crimson ocean the world would never forget.
The Dark Lord, Zurthur —the most powerful sorcerer in history— was dead.
His remains, blackened and eroded, lay scattered across the radioactive, burning sands. The corpse disintegrated slowly, as radiation tore through every atom of the power that still flickered in his dark eyes.
Technology, forever underestimated, had become the executioner of the man who, in ancient times, had been the terror of his world.
Screens flickered to life in every home across the United States, like embers waking in every city. They all showed the same thing: a man in an elegant suit, but with the eyes of a repentant father…
The planes flying over Japan only saw the mushroom cloud over Nagasaki, never imagining the chaos they had unleashed in other realms, in another dimension—in Genesis.
Days passed before the Great Elders returned from their battle against the Dark Lord. They brought no victory in their eyes; only hollow stares, trembling hands, and tattered robes.
The stolen televisions of the human world endlessly replayed the same face: the father of the atomic bomb. And his words, searing like red-hot steel, marked an entire era:
"I am become death."
"The destroyer of worlds."