From the bleeding core of existence, immortal war-poets wrench verses forged in black flames where dying stars scream into the void. Each lyric fractures like a shattered shard from broken constellations; every beat pounds like a cataclysmic hammer blow fracturing reality’s bones and igniting storms across the abyss.

This is the Final Oblivion — an apocalyptic hymn that shatters silence and crowns the void with a crown wrought of ash and fury. Enter the ironbound arena where gods crumble and rise between heartbeats, where the victor’s voice carves unbreakable law into the marrow of unborn worlds.

The mic pulses like an obsidian engine pumping molten truths through veins stretched across infinite time. The crowd is the abyss incarnate — a ravenous tide consuming empires, stars, and the fading embers of forgotten light. The beat is a war-hammer wielded by eternal titans, smashing infinity into fiery shards sharp enough to carve the soul of the cosmos.