No matter what Ludwig conjured in his mind, plans rehearsed like old lines, tactics borrowed from memory, or desperate improvisations born of sheer panic, it all unraveled the same way. His chains snapped. His sword broke. His body shattered. Even when his blows struck true, the Wrathful Death did not falter. The ending was always written before it began.
The loops repeated, countless and merciless. Death, destruction, a struggle that bled into nothing, and then death again. The thing that loomed over him did not need to act with intent; it simply was. Its presence smothered hope like a hand pressed to a flame. A twitch of its gauntleted hand tore apart streets. A breath from behind its visor silenced thousands. To Ludwig, it was as if inevitability itself had taken form, wearing steel and crimson fire.
