Evil had stretched beyond mercy—too cunning, too cruel, and too deeply rooted to be cleansed by grace alone.

He was not sent to redeem.
He was sent to end.

So the Lord did not whisper.
He roared.
And from His wrath was born the Hunter—His holy terror, shaped not in peace but in a flash of divine rage. A celestial echo forged in the moment heaven could no longer wait. Tasked with igniting the apocalypse itself, he carried no halo—only mandate. His arrival cracked prophecy open like thunder, splitting history into Before and Reckoning.
He moved like stormfire.
He spoke in judgment.
And he hunted not the lost—but the corrupters, the architects of suffering, the great evil that mocked the throne.

This was no mission of hope.
It was consecrated destruction.
The last act of a God who loved the world enough to undo it… so that it might be born again.