Grodak blinked at Imp, the laughter dying instantly in his throat.
"What?" he asked flatly.
Imp gestured helplessly. "You said Grall is in the realm of the dead. The orcs' final resting place. That would mean he's—"
"Oh for fuck's sake," Grodak muttered, rubbing his face with both palms. "Imp, listen carefully. The Shadow World is not just a graveyard. It's… complicated."
Jaxale raised a brow. "That would be the understatement of the century."
Dronde nodded grimly. "I've seen Grall walk out of that place like someone leaving a tavern for more ale."
Imp stared at them like they had collectively lost their minds.
"But it's a death realm," he insisted. "It should only take in souls! Are you telling me Grall can simply walk around in it?"
Grodak snorted. "Walk? Brother, he owns the place."
Imp froze.
"…What?"
Tyril finally spoke, his voice solemn. "Grall is bound to the Shadow World. It doesn't keep him—he keeps it. The place avoids him more than he avoids it."
Imp wanted to protest, but the weight of their expressions silenced him. His mind raced.
If Grall wasn't dead… then where had he gone? And why had he vanished from Imp's perception entirely?
Before Imp could gather his thoughts, the air in the chamber trembled.
A ripple.
A distortion.
A familiar pressure—heavy, ancient, and cold—settled across the group.
Sitting at the empty seat at the round table, a figure emerged as if carved from darkness itself. The shadows peeled away like a curtain…and Grall sat there, helm in hand, his armor marked with dust and age from a time not his own.
He looked… tired.
Not bodily tired—soul tired. The kind of exhaustion that came from carrying centuries in a single breath.
Imp nearly dropped Talengar's journal.
"Grall?! What—how—where—?!"
Grall lifted his helm just enough for his eyes to meet Imp's.
"Busy," he said simply.
Grodak rolled his eyes. "Well, that explains everything."
"Quiet," Grall said—not harshly, but with a gravity that silenced even Grodak's retort.
He placed the helm on the table and exhaled.
"I've been… elsewhere. A mural. A memory. A trap. I was sent back to the First Council of the Gods."
That pulled the breath from the room.
Tyril leaned forward. "You spoke to them?"
"No," Grall said. "They fled. All except Talengar."
Grodak stiffened.
Grall continued. "He told me the truth of the last cycle. Or… what little he could before time forced me out."
Imp swallowed. "And? What did he say? Did he say anything about The Reaper?"
Grall's eyes—dark, deep, and old—found Imp's with surgical precision.
"Yes," Grall said. "He did."
He pressed his palm to the table, and black mist pulsed outward like veins spreading across metal.
"He told me The Reaper did not simply choose champions for the next cycle."
His voice lowered.
"He told me The Reaper ended the last one."
A stunned silence filled the room.
Imp found his voice first, but it was barely a whisper.
"Grall… are you saying you ended the last cycle?"
Grall didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The mist crawling across the table spoke for him.
Grodak leaned back slowly, arms crossed. "Well. That's going to be a problem."
Imp's throat tightened. "Then the threat I warned you about—the one in Talengar's journal—"
Grall finished the sentence for him.
"Yes. The Reaper."
He lifted his head.
"And he is not coming."
A pause.
"He is already here."
Imp had expected skepticism. He had expected maybe a few questions.
He had not expected the room to erupt into explosive, tear-inducing laughter.
Jaxale nearly fell out of his chair. Adrian wheezed like he'd been stabbed. Even Dronde let out a rare, booming chuckle that shook dust from the rafters.
Imp's face darkened. "WILL SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHAT IN THE SEVENTEEN HELLS IS SO FUNNY?!"
It took three shouts, one threat of magical silence, and Tyril holding Grodak in a headlock before the laughter finally dwindled.
Tyril wiped his eyes. "Imp… Grall isn't dead."
Imp stared at him. "…he's in the final resting place of the orcs."
"Correct," Tyril nodded calmly. "He can come and go as he pleases."
Imp's jaw dropped. "But that's a realm for the dead."
"Also correct," Tyril said. "Death holds no meaning to him. The Shadow World revives him whenever he dies. Sometimes instantly. Sometimes after a few minutes. We've all seen it happen. Once or twice while fighting beside him…" His eyes slid toward Cassandra. "Or against him."
Cassandra folded her arms, looking away. "He's… persistent."
Imp rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So now I'm dealing with an immortal berserker, a possibly revived Marik, and the entity known as The Reaper. Wonderful."
That shut everyone up.
The name Marik drained color from every face in the room.
Tyril looked like someone had stabbed him between the ribs. "Imp… repeat that. Slowly."
Imp recounted everything—his death, his return, the empty cave, the necromancers. He condensed it into a single, clinical explanation, but the weight of it settled over them like a blanket of ash.
Tyril's voice cracked. "And you are certain… they were necromancers?"
Imp nodded.
Tyril lowered his face into his hands. Rage, grief, and fear warred inside him.
"Then they were trying to bring him back. Marik…" His voice broke entirely.
Grodak's body trembled as much from anger as fear. "Why him? Why in every godsdamned cycle do people insist on touching corpses that should stay buried?!"
Imp raised a hand and Etherious—now clad in gentle pink-white scales—let out a roaring bellow that shook the stone foundation.
The room snapped to silence.
"Good," Imp said through clenched teeth. "Now, as I was saying—Marik ties directly to why I summoned you."
Tyril lifted his head, eyes red. "You think Marik is the new threat? The Reaper?"
"I do."
Imp held up Talengar's journal like a relic.
"Talengar's notes answer questions philosophers have pondered since the First Cycle. How does the Source—or the Gods—reclaim all creation to restart the world? And why would such a system exist at all?"
He placed the journal down, gently this time.
"I believe the answer is here."
Grodak leaned forward. "But how would a Reaper do that? Destroy everything?"
Imp turned to the journal, flipping slowly to the worn, brittle pages.
"Because Talengar wrote of the origin of the one now called The Reaper," Imp said. "A story older than any of us. A story of two brothers."
He drew a breath—and began reading Talengar's words.
---
Talengar – Last Cycle, Journal Entry
I was a warrior, as were all orcs. We had no Gods to restrain us. We believed ourselves strong because no divinity tempered us. In truth, we were blind.
We ignored the legends the other races whispered—of a man who would lose what he loved, and in doing so, make the world lose what it loved. A vague prophecy, we thought. Someone else's problem. Our pride doomed us.
I still recall the day fate began its march.
I returned triumphant from battle against a band of elves. On the road I found a caravan under attack. I slew the raiders not from heroism, but for more kills to claim more reward.
I was too late to save the merchants… all but two. Twins, babes shielded by their mother's dying embrace. Honor demanded I take them in. And thus Darius and Firge became my sons.
We lived years of peace. My tribe, my blood sons, and the twins—my family. When Darius and Firge reached manhood, they left to find their place in the world. Five years later, they returned with wives and children. I was proud beyond measure.
Firge confided in me first. Strange dreams. Powers upon waking that mirrored what he saw in sleep. I thought it youthful nonsense—until he defeated me in a duel. A feat no one had accomplished. The Gods had blessed him, to prepare him for the 'man clad in madness.' We laughed at the notion. We should not have.
Time passed. Then tragedy. Darius—gentle, strategic, quiet Darius—accidentally slew my blood son Graft in a moment of exhaustion and frustration. He was never the same. Hallucinations plagued him. A man in a white suit who whispered to him.
Then Landran, Graft's grieving wife, killed Darius' wife in revenge. That was the final fracture. Darius shattered. Firge tried to stop him but could not deliver the killing blow. Darius struck him down without hesitation.
The world united to fight my son. I refused. No father should raise a sword against his child, no matter the sins.
Darius's five children ended him after a battle that scorched the earth for days.
But death did not hold him. Or perhaps it did not hold Firge. One—or both—returned decades later. When I was an old man. And they killed without pause. Every race. Every gender. Every age. Until only twelve of us remained: those who later became the Gods.
The one we came to know as The Reaper visited me before my end. He bid me write this account. And write this warning:
He will come.
When he does, fear the madness.
Do not hesitate to slay him.
He does not wish for the end.
Beware the demons who lay in wait—they are the true threat to the cycle.
Most importantly:
**Beware the Original Sin.
Beware the Rebirth Algorithm.**