No one summoned it. No one made it. It was always hungry. The first time Fira saw Oblak, it wasn’t during a reaping. It was before she even knew she was a reaper. Just a dream, she thought—a black beach where the stars screamed and the ocean was made of teeth. And from the sand, something slithered up… bulbous, pulsing, reeking of ash and bone. It didn’t roar. It didn’t speak. It just opened. And the stars went out. Oblak existed long before Death. Long before gods. It was a miscarriage of the multiverse, something spat out when existence gagged on its own contradictions. Realities blinked out the moment it inhaled. Gods tried to contain it—they were digested. But Oblak doesn’t kill. It consumes. The Arena didn’t call Oblak. It crawled in. A titan made of copper limbs charged it once, screaming oaths from a war-forged gospel. Oblak blinked. The titan became a soup of memories and dancing shadows in an instant. A reaper stationed nearby vomited black bile for three days after watching. Oblak is not loud. It is not fast. It just moves. Where it walks, life goes silent. Fira asked Arif once, her voice shaking: "Why do we keep beings like that in the Arena? That thing—it doesn’t fight, it devours." Arif didn’t look at her. He only replied: "Because Oblak is not our prisoner, Fira. It is our reminder. Of what comes if we fail." Sometimes, Fira feels eyes behind her when she dreams. No breathing. No sound. Just hunger.