Two years after the Gluttonous World incident…
the world had changed shape again.
Not healed.
Not peaceful.
Just… restructured around what remained.
At the peak of the Mountain of Koa—
something stirred.
Snow didn't fall here anymore.
It evaporated before touching the ground.
A figure sat in silence.
Surrounded by the frozen remains of millions of yetis.
Not slaughtered in chaos.
But defeated in stillness.
Like the battle had ended before it truly began.
He slowly stood up.
The Sword of Death rested in his hand, heavier than anything in the world—but carried like it had no weight at all.
His presence alone cracked the mountain's atmosphere.
Behind him—
a familiar voice echoed through the air.
"…It is time, my liege."
The Grim Reaper emerged from the mist.
Scythe in hand.
Calm as ever.
The man turned slightly.
His eyes carried something different now.
Not rage.
Not desperation.
But certainty.
"…You came back."
The Grim Reaper nodded.
"I never left."
A pause.
"Are you ready?"
The man looked down at the mountain below.
At the erased armies.
At the broken history carved into ice and stone.
Then he smiled faintly.
"…Yes."
The battle began instantly.
No warning.
No buildup.
Just collision.
The Grim Reaper swung his scythe—
and reality fractured into layered cuts of death itself.
But the man moved through it.
Like he already knew every angle.
Every intention.
Every outcome.
The mountain responded violently.
Avalanches erupted in all directions, collapsing entire cliffs and valleys beneath them.
The world itself tried to interrupt the fight.
It wasn't enough.
The man raised his hand.
Tattoos across his body began moving—
not glowing.
Not activating.
Obeying.
Ten clones of the Grim Reaper appeared at once.
Each one striking from a different timeline.
The man didn't block.
He punched once.
The clones collapsed into poison gas instantly.
Not destroyed.
Transformed.
Their existence converted into toxic memory that evaporated into the air.
The Grim Reaper paused slightly.
"…So you've refined it."
The man didn't answer.
He stepped forward.
The scythe came down again.
This time faster.
Heavier.
Final.
The man snapped his fingers.
The scythe shattered.
Not broken by force.
But denied structural meaning.
The Grim Reaper froze.
"…Impossible."
The man moved.
One step.
Then another.
Speed escalating beyond comprehension.
Faster than light.
Then faster than perception.
A single strike landed.
Not with a weapon.
Not with a blade.
But with a tattooed kick that rewrote impact itself.
The Grim Reaper staggered.
For the first time—
he was forced back.
Silence returned to the mountain.
The snow stopped pretending to exist.
The man lowered his foot slowly.
And exhaled.
"…I'm ready," he said quietly.
Then looked toward the horizon.
Where distant worlds still burned with unfinished wars.
"…to meet them once again."