Since that distant, primeval age, a cowardly child whispered a wish to the Devil in the dead of night. He had had enough of cold and hunger, enough of suffering and torment; the Death God loitered at his side, and amid peals of cruel laughter lightly pressed that icy Scythe against his throat.
In despair vast as the Abyss, the child devoutly begged for the Blessing of eternal life. With Silverware he slit open his palm and offered his blood, his soul, and all his future offspring to that presence dwelling in the dark.
Blood and darkness merged into one, becoming an unending stream that flowed through an age and era steeped in gore.
Until today.
Serey's pupils widened slightly as he stared, incredulous, at that pitch‑black figure steadily drawing near. In the history of the Night Race, that proud Devil had almost never manifested before their eyes; even the Night King had rarely witnessed his existence in person.
