It was a land of despair, with no exits or entrances, no food or water sources, not even an option to end one's existence.
A group of creatures, grey and shadowy, were struggling to survive.
Compared to other survivors, they had no sharp claws or teeth, no special abnormal abilities. They feared the scorching sun, for they would weaken and die due to the evaporation of water. Moreover, they had a natural lifespan limitation.
But they were the masters of this ruined world.
The reason? Their vast numbers.
In a dystopian future where only powerful individuals could survive by luck, their population was nearly limitless.
They swarmed, devouring surviving demons, organic remnants, inorganic substances as solid as stones, and then forcefully converted them into "themselves."
They... or "he," no matter how many selves he replicated, no matter how shredded he got or charred he was, he remained himself.
He was struggling, surviving.
