In a universe where death is a forgotten relic, Earth remains an unsettling anomaly and one of the last places where mortality still lingers—controlled by an ancient sect known as the Final Veil. Hidden in the fabric of global conflicts, they do not rule, nor do they seek dominion. They harvest. Every war, every plague, every act of suffering is a calculated transaction. The dying are not lost; they are processed. Their final moments siphoned, distilled into Thanovore, an exo

And the force recoiled, for it did not belong. A division was made, a wound torn deep—radiance and shadow ripped apart. And the force saw this as acceptable, for it reflected a void within itself. There was no light, no peace, only the coldness of a world without salvation, an endless churn of unrest. Each became incomplete in their severance.

Then everything stopped. No dreams. No broadcasts. No sign of Drax. For forty days. The world exhaled. Perhaps he was dead? Then every screen displayed the same image. The Nightmare Projector. And Drax. No signal. No transmission. The image simply appeared. Everywhere. At once. Like breath returning to a corpse. For the first time, humanity understood. The impossible had happened. Vincent Drax has power beyond the imagination. Except his imagination….