The mighty god above was sitting on his throne made out of gold, accompanied by his army, as they watched yet another world slowly perish. The four-armed god of combat was intently watching as the gray ashes began to rain down from the skies, slowly corrupting every living being, turning into a foul beast, unable to die, privy of all reason. Leaving behind a gray, unlivable wasteland.
"Lord, the competition is over; this is a report of all the–" As one of the ancient dragons was approaching the great being, reporting on the state of the game and the movement of the other gods, the god waved his hand at him, signaling to keep his mouth shut.
Among its siblings, the god of combat was the one who hereditated most of the traits of the former ancient being, the lord of all conflicts. He heretidated the mannerism, the pride, the arrogance, his love for creating life with its own hand, and just like the previous lord, he hereditary its immense aversion for the ashes.
