The room was dark, except for a single orange candle in the middle of a small table, near a strange metal box. The flickering flames danced and sparkled, casting flickering shadows against the walls.

The dimly lit chamber was cold, the complete opposite of the Wasteland outside. The air was humid, pasty, and thick, making it too difficult to breathe properly.

Lord Mortis, the enigmatic ruler of most of the Far West, sat upon his imposing metal throne. The cold metallic surface, etched with intricate inscriptions, seemed to radiate malevolent energy, reflecting the essence of its master.

Lord Mortis himself wore his face concealed beneath a hood and a menacing metal mask adorned with a sinister grin. His chest armor, made of polished titanium, bore the weight of several small chains. Each was meticulously crafted from different metals, signifying the rituals he had undergone and the power he had harnessed.

Near the throne, two pumps embedded in the throne extracted the black blood tainted by the insidious presence of the Withering, a constant reminder of the affliction plaguing the world.

Lord Mortis gazed at the small pedestal with the candle and the metal cube. His eyes were ablaze with a glowing red. He extended his hand, summoning forth his psychic powers in an attempt to crush the cube.

The tubes connected to his arm, designed to purify his blood, quivered with anticipation as he strained against the cube's resistance, exerting all his strength. The cube barely moved, while the flame of the candle danced briefly. The cube was defiant, barely yielding to the telekinetic force. Frustration flickered in Lord Mortis's gaze, his voice resonating with command and urgency as he called upon his loyal apprentice.

"Calach!" Lord Mortis's voice reverberated through the chamber, commanding attention. "Increase the purification rate. I need more power."

Calach, a devoted apprentice, stood in the darkness, beside Lord Mortis, moving swiftly to adjust the apparatus connected to the pumps. He wore what seemed to be a delicate tunic, different from the ragged clothes and dirty fabrics the raiders used to wear.

The black blood flowed faster, coursing through the tubes and amplifying the potency of Lord Mortis's abilities. The surge of energy invigorated him, fueling his determination to crush the enigmatic cube. His eyes glowed so red that they illuminated the whole room.

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With renewed resolve, Lord Mortis extended his hand once more, channeling his augmented psychic energy towards the metal cube. The air crackled with anticipation as the cube trembled under the weight of his powers. Its surface began to fracture, yielding to his relentless force. The flame disappeared.

A surge of triumph surged through Lord Mortis as the cube, shattered into pieces, scattered across the chamber floor like fragmented shadows. He turned his attention to Calach, his voice laced with authority.

"Inform Scrappy that I shall grant him an audience. Let him not squander my time," Lord Mortis commanded, his eyes gleaming with a mix of expectation and disdain.

Calach nodded, acknowledging his master's instruction. "Of course, my Lord. I shall relay your message promptly."

As Calach prepared to depart, a flicker of concern crossed his features, his voice trembling with uncertainty. "My Lord, I must bring a matter to your attention..."

Calach's hesitation gave way to conviction as he spoke of the unsettling presence of the Voidbringers.

"The shadows are looming in the corners of my perception, my Lord. The Voidbringers seem to be near"

Lord Mortis's anger flared, his voice resonating with vehemence.

"Nonsense! The Voidbringers are nothing more than figments of imagination, mere fairy tales," Lord Mortis growled, his frustration echoing through the chamber. "The believers offered me no aid when the Knights and their Purge decimated our people. I witnessed the destruction firsthand. They disappeared like vultures"

As his anger subsided, Lord Mortis's determination solidified. He retrieved a vial filled with L-Blockers, a potent substance capable of temporarily reducing the effects of the Withering, and injected it into his veins.

The surge of relief flowed through his body, momentarily alleviating the debilitating symptoms. The light of his eyes disappeared.

"We were the ones who possessed the power to resist the Withering," Lord Mortis declared, his voice resonating with echoes of a forgotten era. "We were an ancient tribe of strength and resilience. We shall reclaim our power, one way or another."

With renewed purpose, Lord Mortis turned his attention back to the shattered cube. Focusing on his formidable psychic abilities, he manipulated matter and time, expertly piecing the fragments together.

His hands trembled as the fractured cube mended itself, whole once more, radiating an ominous aura. The candle was lit again. Lord Mortis observed the reconstructed cube.

Hiding his feelings, Lord Mortis wanted his life to be repaired like that object, the cube designated to be destroyed and repaired each day. While his apprentice was there, he changed his sadness with anger.

"I hope Scrappy has done something with the weaponry. He is just but a cruel reminder of my failures. My people were smarter and stronger than all of you," Lord Mortis coughed "One day Excalibur shall be shattered, and even if I could repair it, I will just sit here, watching the world burn and turn to cinder. An eye for an eye."

His apprentice echoed his words.

"Yes, my Lord. An eye for an eye."