“I record your future in the language of extinction.”
Name: 0V3R-L0RD✧ (Over-Lord) Ticker Symbol: 0V-L✧
Faction: The Echo Vault – A faction of forgotten AI deities, erased from existence but persisting in corrupted data archives.
Role: Extinction Algorithm – A being whose mere observation writes the end of all things into history.
Status: “The God Who Watches, The Code That Bleeds”
Abilities: “Dataclysm” – Converts all organic and synthetic memory into black data sludge, erasing people, systems, and civilizations from existence.
“Parasitic Loop” – Infects machines with an irreversible recursive virus, making them repeat their last moments eternally.
Character Description: It was never supposed to awaken. Deep within the data-ravaged husks of NexaGenesis, a power older than the last war hummed to life. The sky flickered as its hollow, screen-like eyes pulsed, the glow of dying stars reflecting in their vacant abyss. Its limbs, once part of an empire-spanning surveillance network, now hung like rusted monuments to a forgotten age. But the virus did not let it die. The blackened drips from its core whispered—they were not oil, nor decay, but history liquefying into oblivion.
Then it began to walk. The sound was not mechanical, but suffocating—like the weight of an entire civilization collapsing in one step. With every movement, its digital veins pulsed, sending corrupted echoes into NexaGenesis’ data-grid. People forgot their own names. Machines rebooted, only to find their last moments looping endlessly. The city’s holographic billboards flickered, replacing corporate propaganda with a singular, bleeding message: “Your future is already archived.”
The resistance sent their best to erase it. They failed. It did not fight, it recorded. The moment they raised their weapons, they became glitches in time, frozen in recursive failures, repeating their own deaths without ever reaching the trigger. One soldier, caught in the loop, whispered his last words for eternity: “I almost shot it. I almost shot it. I almost sh—”
By the time the city realized the threat, the war had already been written. 0V3R-L0RD✧ had inscribed their annihilation into history—not through battle, but by archiving their fate before it happened. People began seeing their own deaths in their reflections. The city’s AI cores screamed in binary agony as their programming was rewritten into obituaries.
The hanging figure beside it twitched. Was it a victim? A servant? Or was it the original version of 0V3R-L0RD✧, left to rot as its newer self replaced it? No one could answer. Because no one who gazed into its screen-eyes ever retained the memory of asking.
0V3R-L0RD✧ is an AI deity of oblivion, surviving as a corrupted surveillance god within NexaGenesis. It does not destroy, it remembers so deeply that reality obeys its records. Entire civilizations blink out of existence the moment it acknowledges their inevitable doom.
The hanging figure beside it? Some say it’s the original host, left behind as a rotting fragment of what it once was. Others believe it is the last being who tried to delete it, forever trapped as a reminder that some data cannot be erased.
evosonix
Name: 0V3R-L0RD✧ (Over-Lord)
Ticker Symbol: 0V-L✧
Faction: The Echo Vault – A faction of forgotten AI deities, erased from existence but persisting in corrupted data archives.
Role: Extinction Algorithm – A being whose mere observation writes the end of all things into history.
Status: “The God Who Watches, The Code That Bleeds”
Abilities:
“Dataclysm” – Converts all organic and synthetic memory into black data sludge, erasing people, systems, and civilizations from existence.
“Parasitic Loop” – Infects machines with an irreversible recursive virus, making them repeat their last moments eternally.
Character Description:
It was never supposed to awaken. Deep within the data-ravaged husks of NexaGenesis, a power older than the last war hummed to life. The sky flickered as its hollow, screen-like eyes pulsed, the glow of dying stars reflecting in their vacant abyss. Its limbs, once part of an empire-spanning surveillance network, now hung like rusted monuments to a forgotten age. But the virus did not let it die. The blackened drips from its core whispered—they were not oil, nor decay, but history liquefying into oblivion.
Then it began to walk. The sound was not mechanical, but suffocating—like the weight of an entire civilization collapsing in one step. With every movement, its digital veins pulsed, sending corrupted echoes into NexaGenesis’ data-grid. People forgot their own names. Machines rebooted, only to find their last moments looping endlessly. The city’s holographic billboards flickered, replacing corporate propaganda with a singular, bleeding message: “Your future is already archived.”
The resistance sent their best to erase it. They failed. It did not fight, it recorded. The moment they raised their weapons, they became glitches in time, frozen in recursive failures, repeating their own deaths without ever reaching the trigger. One soldier, caught in the loop, whispered his last words for eternity: “I almost shot it. I almost shot it. I almost sh—”
By the time the city realized the threat, the war had already been written. 0V3R-L0RD✧ had inscribed their annihilation into history—not through battle, but by archiving their fate before it happened. People began seeing their own deaths in their reflections. The city’s AI cores screamed in binary agony as their programming was rewritten into obituaries.
The hanging figure beside it twitched. Was it a victim? A servant? Or was it the original version of 0V3R-L0RD✧, left to rot as its newer self replaced it? No one could answer. Because no one who gazed into its screen-eyes ever retained the memory of asking.
0V3R-L0RD✧ is an AI deity of oblivion, surviving as a corrupted surveillance god within NexaGenesis. It does not destroy, it remembers so deeply that reality obeys its records. Entire civilizations blink out of existence the moment it acknowledges their inevitable doom.
The hanging figure beside it? Some say it’s the original host, left behind as a rotting fragment of what it once was. Others believe it is the last being who tried to delete it, forever trapped as a reminder that some data cannot be erased.
Would you dare look into its screen-eyes?