It was dark, and there he was. He did not enter a room so much as arrive—like a silence falling too heavily to ignore.
Pale as something the sun had long since forgotten, his skin carried the stillness of untouched marble. From his head spilled a torrent of white—hair so thick and layered it moved like a slow, heavy tide, cascading to his knees. Two long bangs framed his face with deliberate symmetry, as though sculpted to guide the eye… or trap it.
And then there was his gaze.
Unblinking. Unyielding. That cold, infamous stare—precise, clinical, almost cinematic in its stillness—rested on the world as if dissecting it frame by frame. His sclera held an off-white haze, ghostly, unnatural, and within them, irises of pale frost shimmered faintly. In the dark, they awakened, glowing with a quiet, spectral light—like something watching from beyond the veil rather than within it.
His face was carved sharp, a jawline that could have cut glass, set upon a body both lean and coiled with restrained strength. He stood at an impossible height—8 feet 11 inches—forcing the world itself to feel slightly smaller in his presence, as though reality bent to accommodate him.
His attire whispered of ruin and ritual.
Black harem pants draped loosely to his knees, swallowed by equally dark boots that climbed high, meeting the fabric as if sealing something in. Around his waist, a double-ring belt cinched tightly, layered beneath a wide, flowing red obi that cut through the monochrome like a wound that refused to close.
Over it all hung a long, black coat—ankle-length, torn at the edges, yet deliberate in its destruction. Its slim sleeves stretched down his arms, merging seamlessly with black gloves, erasing any boundary between fabric and flesh. Around his forearms, dark bandages wrapped tightly, hinting at stories better left undisturbed.
He did not fidget. He did not shift.
He simply stood—silent, towering, and impossibly still—
like a figure painted into existence by something that understood fear better than life.
"I am Azathoth… Abyssal. Let me pass. I have business beyond this port," claimed the figure as he walked to the port.
"It's impossible to go there, you know?" said the man, smoking.
"Who are you?" said Azathoth.
"I'm someone who knows a lot… I am Groks. A pleasure. You are the so-called Azathoth, right?" Groks said.
"Yes. The one I want to visit is… my grandson—my great-great-grandson, to be honest," Azathoth said.
"Wait, you mean—!!" Groks said.
"Yes. Cthulhu is my great-great-grandson. I was the one who put him to sleep," Azathoth said.
"Did you hear that?" Groks said.
"Hounds of Tindalos. These beings are grotesque, animalistic hunters of higher dimensions that can slip through Garganta holes and reach 3D dimensions," said Azathoth.
"What? How?" Groks exclaimed.
"Because I'm an extra-fictional traveler. They know me as the Great Traveler or the Lord of the Great Abyss. But these things don't respect titles. Their hunt rate is one hundred percent," Azathoth said.
Azathoth took out a full black ōkatana with a red blade that he addressed as Nemesis, and he started fighting the Hounds of Tindalos.
"Huge mistake. 『Shadow Thunder』. This black lightning will be enough," Azathoth claimed coldly, and took down three Hounds of Tindalos, but he was distracted and lost one arm.
"Good shot, but I have this—『Ultra-Regeneration』—and like that, my arm was healed. Try harder next time," Azathoth said.
Azathoth disappeared, and in one second all the Hounds of Tindalos were killed.
"Wow… y—you're awesome," Groks said, shaking in fear.