Fear. It has no face. Yet, it graces the faces of all who gaze upon me. It graces itself upon their faces today. Monsters, gods, heroes, villains.
They have me surrounded, or so they think, all I am really surrounded by is fear and dead beings. I found it almost amusing, they journeyed so far, only to die by my hand.
Fools, all of them. Did they not understand? I am the shadow at the end of every road. The whisper carried in the final breath of my enemies. I do not fall. I do not fade. I remain.
The die has been cast and death has come to claim its prize. My death would be a mercy… but not for me—for the world.
It slips away—dying. My humanity. Each day, I grow colder. More distant. Less alive. And yet, I will not die. Not now. Not ever. No matter how many pray for it.
They come at me, and as is my right, I show them no mercy. The death knight reaches me first, wielding a sword said to cut through anything. I disarm him, and to his credit, he lasts a whole two seconds before I carve him into a corpse.
Sensing the violence on their minds, I jolt forward and hasten their ends. The Ashlord's skull splits in half. They try to rally, to steady their hearts—but it's a slaughter.
They came for the god of death. Now, they must die.
I break the arm of the god of Soula, smash his head into the wall, then hurl his body into their ranks.
The Scorpion of Souchester lunges, twin blades singing for blood. I twist her spine backward through her chest and leave her twitching in the dirt.
The Reaper of Tyuwer raises her obsidian scythe. I catch it, snap it in half, and drive the jagged end through her throat. She gurgles something holy. I silence it with my fist.
I break the arms of the god of Souchester, smash his head in, and use his corpse in killing 50 more of them. The Herald of Flame burns hot, until I crush his ribs inward and snuff him out like smoke.
The goddess of war's arms spin off her body like loosened blades.
It takes me five long minutes, but they all die. Over six hundred of them.
Many men have written their names in the eternity of history. Some are remembered as brave and astute men, others are notable for their cruelty or cowardice.
Only one name echoes century after century. Hadrian Marcus Blackstar. The man who defied death. The one who became a God. I am that man.
They built empires to stop me. Prayed to gods to curse me. None endured. I outlived their kings, burned their cities, and shattered their heavens. History remembers many. But eternity? Eternity belongs to me. And I am not done yet. Not by a long shot.