Bodies piled upon bodies before Greg, forming grotesque, twitching mounds of torn flesh and shattered armor.
The ground had turned into a slick, crimson mire, every step squelching under his boots.
He moved through the slaughter like a man possessed, eyes cold, movements mechanical, relentless.
There was no pause, no mercy, only the steady rhythm of death.
Stats were stolen in flashes of dark light.
Bloodlines were plundered, ripped from still-warm corpses.
Lives ended in sprays of gore and final, choked gasps.
Yet Greg refused to stop.
Each kill fed him, fueled him, pushed him further into the abyss of power he craved.
The general could bear it no longer.
He had watched long enough, watched his soldiers fall like wheat before a scythe.
With a guttural snarl, he charged forward, joining the fray at last.
His demonic eyes shifted hue, swirling from deep crimson to an unnatural, glowing violet as he surrendered control to the raw desire burning inside him.
