The world is dead, dead from the poison brewed by one's own hands.
The ocean boils, giving birth to offspring that hate everything. They flattened cities and trampled the tombstones of civilization under their feet. Weapons that once symbolized ultimate power can now only leave shameful scars on the beast's carapace. Hope is the most luxurious word in this era; tomorrow is a legend more uncertain than mutants.
The abyss will eventually swallow everything, but before that, he chooses to sharpen the mortal iron in his hand into the final blow to cut through the darkness.
Not bad, not bad