Satellite Sector, deep within.
The candlewick twitched in the congealed wax tears, its dim yellow halo like a dying firefly, barely licking at the room's outlines. Beneath the peeling wallpaper lay patterns woven from mold stains, while a damp chill seeped from the cracks.
Figures wrapped in black burlap hoods sat around a worm-eaten wooden table. The shadows beneath their hoods were so dense they seemed to have swallowed their features, leaving only branch-like hands extending from their sleeves and casting trembling, web-like shadows in the candlelight.
On the arm of one of those hands' owners was a horrifying pattern.
Purple-black markings, drawn in thick, simple lines, formed a design resembling the Nazca Lines.
Dark Signers.
A bond spanning five thousand years had chosen these people as messengers of the Underworld. They were destined to battle the Signers chosen by the Crimson Dragon. When the Dark Signers won, the Gate of the Underworld would open, and the King of the Underworld would once again descend upon the human world.
The world of the living would be overturned, and the dead would rule all. That was the purpose of the Dark Signers' existence.
"Looks like the time is about right."
Beneath the flickering candlelight, a Dark Signer spoke in a low voice.
He revealed his arm. The lines of the Dark Sign glowed with purple light.
"God's Mark is thirsting for battle. Thirsting for the blood of the Signers."
But a female Dark Signer spoke up. "But aren't all our people here yet? The time is close, but not yet."
Across from the candlelight, the blue-haired Dark Signer tapped his knuckles against the tabletop and snorted in a slightly shrill voice. "It doesn't matter.
"This mission to fight, this five-thousand-year destiny... none of it matters.
"But every last one of you