As night falls and the sun rises, the sky turns a strange, dark red...
As catastrophe descends, humans and ghosts roam unchecked, and civilization teeters on the brink...
As a thousand years of human technology crumbles before that "person"...
The world is no longer what it was, and people are no longer who they used to be!
Everyone has their own [fate]. In the wake of that strange catastrophe, human life is as insignificant as dust, and the [Path of Fate] is overgrown with thorns...
In the face of the unknown, humanity is as fragile as porcelain.
Before humanity's last sanctuary, atop a city wall soaring into the clouds, stood a young man in red, a long sword strapped to his back. His clothes were as red as blood, and his hair was white.
He was only eighteen or nineteen, yet his head of white hair spoke of age and hardship.
No System, no harem, no transmigration. Read at your own discretion if any of that bothers you.
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