Chapter Text
Devastation, wars, remnants of civilization. What does this magical city look like now? The capital, where laughter and joy could be heard every day, is now just emptiness. Feelings are gone, people are gone, all this beauty is gone.
The once blue and clear sky is now gray with dust and dirt, almost red, rising from the ground. On the road, there were dried pools of blood, pink-red pieces, stick figures that would never get up again. Somewhere, cars were abandoned or destroyed, and a crashed plane lay in the once golden wheat field.
In the first year, there were still soldiers here, sent by the authorities, thinking that ordinary people, even with machine guns, would be able to stop those with inhuman powers. All they had to do was raise their hands, and everything alive would be instantly killed. That is what happened to these poor children of God.
Walking through the neighborhoods, the red stickman didn't understand: what had happened?
He had destroyed more than one city, more than one site, but then he felt joy, a sense of power... but now...
There was only sadness and sorrow. He didn't even notice how thoughts and desires to turn everything back began to fill his mind. To hear all the street noise again, children walking and laughing at some silly thing. And as stupid and childish as it sounded, he wanted to hear the birds singing.
Instead, there was only silence.
Look at him. The Dark Lord—the mighty ruler of chaos, bringing death and destruction to everything in his path...begs the higher powers to turn everything back, to correct his mistakes.
But the Dark understands that nothing can be corrected. It is too late and impossible. The god of creation had long ago been killed by the god of destruction and lay decapitated on the roof of an art exhibition. What a coincidence that the body of the Almighty, who had been a talented artist in life, was hanging headless on the roof of a famous building where exhibitions of the highest-level artists were held.
But one conversation kept troubling:
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2.4.23
Reporter: We sincerely thank you for protecting us every day, and still finding time to bring your wonderful creativity into the world.
The Second Coming: I have to thank you, because you are the ones who motivate me not to give up and to fight for your peace of mind.
Reporter: Thank you, but people often want to ask you what will happen if something happens to you?
The Second Coming: That's a pretty interesting question, miss. So I have assistants who will be a lifeline, giving hope if something happens to me and I can't do it myself. They inspire me and will inspire the people. I trust them as I trust myself.
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"If they really exist, then where are they?" he asked the void in disappointment.
And what do they look like, half stick figures, half gods? Or maybe angel children? Little wings and halos above their heads?
Very clever, Lord. First, you slaughtered everyone to the last soul, and now you expect salvation, the desire for your sins to be corrected. You don't care about forgiveness, only
"For the sake of the Creators, I beg you, correct all the mistakes, I will give you everything, just return everything as it was!"
Every day, the God of Destruction begged desperately.
But despite all this, his thoughts prevented the man from focusing on anything. And there was nothing left to focus on. Every day, The Dark Lord went out to pray and beg these "angels" for help. But who was there to help? Everyone had been killed...
Begging would no longer help; only he and an empty world remained.
Days, months, and years passed...
But in the fourth year, Lord saw a star in the sky. For the first time in so many years.