Apocalypse Of The Devilman _top_ -

The Devilman looks down at his hands. They are red to the wrist. He has killed demons. He has killed saints. He has killed the part of himself that prayed. And somewhere, in the ruin of his ribcage, a tiny ember of the man he was still whispers: no.

"Then you will be the apocalypse," it says. "Not the victim of it. The cause. Every tear from this moment forward will have your face." apocalypse of the devilman

The sky screams. The ground turns to salt. The last clock stops. The Devilman looks down at his hands

And somewhere, in the space between one annihilation and the next, the girl's voice—the one he loved, the one he failed—whispers through the static: He has killed saints

The dead rise—not as souls, not as zombies, but as memories given teeth. Every person he ever failed claws up through the asphalt. They don't attack. They just look at him. That is worse.

The trumpet sounds. Not from heaven. From the pit.

"Return what you stole," it says.