From the dreams of the Primis came not just light — but the unraveling. Where others were shaped to build, Morbior was made to return. Not in malice. But in mercy. He is the breath after the last, the cradle of rot where life once danced, the sacred hush that follows the final scream. To mortals, he is plague. To gods, he is truth. Morbior does not consume — he completes. Where Bellator lays stone, Morbior grinds it to dust. Where Terra roots, Morbior loosens. Where Tonans strikes, Morbior settles. He is the weight of endings, the silent archivist of all that must fall. Not villain. Not savior. Only certainty. For what was once woven… must someday fray.