From the Black Market Auction to the Killing of Gods

Poets burned all their love poems for it and wrote odes to the slaughter of the city; Saints carved blasphemous runes into church domes; The monk smashed the half-baked wooden fish and killed all his fellow disciples under the bodhi tree. What they are chasing is the same thing. A thing that everyone dreams of, but no one ever names. Some want immortality, some want to be loved, some want wisdom. And it never refuses. On the night of the blood moon, order collapsed. Who can stand in the center of the corpses of all forces and say that: "Make a wish—it's my turn this time."