Glut heaved, each breath a struggle against the crushing weight of his wounds and the encroaching darkness at the edges of his vision. The adamantine mace in his trembling hands felt heavier than it had ever been, as if the weapon itself mourned the futility of this battle. Blood poured from countless gashes across his body, pooling beneath him in a sticky, crimson reminder of his own mortality. The pain was unbearable, but it was the silence—the absence of his companions’ voices—that tore at his soul the most.
His blurred gaze swept across the battlefield.
Lump’s body was crumpled a few feet ahead, sprawled lifeless in a twisted heap. The ogre’s head bore a gaping hole, a grotesque wound that still oozed blood in sluggish streams. His vacant eyes stared into nothingness, the fierce fire of his spirit extinguished forever.
To his right, Lara’s form lay limp, her arms splayed awkwardly as if in a final, desperate attempt to fight back. Her blood had painted the earth beneath her, pooling into an ugly, congealed mess. She had fought with unmatched bravery, even when the odds seemed insurmountable. Now, she was silent, her vibrant laughter gone, her light snuffed out.
Halsin had never even had a chance. His body lay inside the hut. The druid had been killed in his sleep, his throat slit . Glut felt his rage boiled , but it was a fleeting anger, quickly swallowed by despair.
Glut’s spores—his last, desperate defense—had erupted from his broken form in a shimmering, deathly cloud. They should have been enough. They should have ended her. But Orin had simply laughed, her twisted figure bathed in moonlight, her grin stretching wide in unnatural delight.
She stood before him now, her bare feet squelching in the blood-soaked earth, each step a deliberate mockery. Her blade, still dripping with the lifeblood of his friends, dangled lazily in her hand, as though the weight of death meant nothing to her.
“Oh, poor, brave little blue,” Orin cooed, her voice dripping with mockery, like honey laced with poison. Her crimson-stained grin widened, her teeth glinting in the dim light. “You really thought your precious spores could stop me? How adorable. How pathetic.” She threw her head back and inhaled deeply, her chest rising in exaggerated theatrics. “I breathed them in, you know. Felt them crawl inside, scratch at my throat. Mmm…” Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “It tickled.”
Glut said nothing. His eyes, though dimmed by pain, locked onto hers with a flicker of stubborn resolve.
She crouched down, her face mere inches from his, her breath hot and metallic with the stench of blood. The grin on her face never faltered. “You’ve got nothing left, do you, little blue? Not your friends, not your spores, not even your strength.” Her tone was sickeningly sweet, a parody of comfort. “But you still want to fight, don’t you? How… precious.”
Glut’s trembling fingers tightened around the handle of his mace. He knew it was futile. He knew her speed, her reflexes, her inhuman ability to regenerate, made her unstoppable. But still… he had to try.
“Come on,” Orin whispered, her grin stretching even wider, her eyes alight with manic glee. She tilted her head to the side and tapped her cheek with one bloodied finger. “Hit me, little blue. Right here. One last swing for the hero.”
Glut gritted his teeth, summoning the last scraps of his strength. His arm shook violently as he raised the mace, every muscle in his broken body screaming in protest. With a desperate roar, he swung—but Orin moved with inhuman grace, stepping aside as though she were swaying to music only she could hear. The mace crashed into the earth, sending a weak spray of blood and dirt into the air.
“Oh you missed,” Orin sneered, twirling her blade as if it were a toy. “You’re not entertaining anymore.” Her voice had lost its mocking sweetness, replaced with cold disinterest.
Glut’s arm fell limp, the mace slipping from his grasp and landing with a dull thud. He knelt there, head bowed, his breaths shallow and labored. His defiance was gone, replaced by the crushing weight of inevitability.
Orin sighed, an exaggerated, theatrical sound. “Well, it’s been fun, little blue. But all good things must come to an end.” She raised her blade, its edge gleaming wickedly in the moonlight. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, the blade came down.
It was swift and merciless, a clean stroke that ended Glut’s suffering and his defiance in a single instant. His body slumped forward, lifeless, as his blood joined the sea of red staining the forest floor.
For a long moment, silence reigned. Then, Orin straightened, brushing a stray lock of hair from her blood-smeared face. She stood amidst the carnage, her form silhouetted against the pale light of the moon. A low, guttural chuckle bubbled up from her throat, growing louder and more unhinged until it echoed through the forest like a chilling symphony of chaos.
“Oh, how I love this game,” she purred, her voice dripping with satisfaction. She turned her gaze to the horizon, her grin as wide and wicked as ever. “And there are so many more pieces to play with…”
The forest remained silent, as though even the trees dared not challenge the monster that now walked among them.
Orin barely had time to process the blur of motion before something hit her with the force of a battering ram. Her body was flung through the air like a ragdoll, shattering trees in her path. She crashed into the ground, her form crumpled and grotesque, a broken puppet abandoned by its strings. Nearly every bone in her body was shattered, her limbs twisted at impossible angles. For a moment, there was only silence—no mocking laughter, no taunts. She was dead.
But then the Netherstone embedded in her dagger pulsed with an ominous crimson light. The glow enveloped her body, tendrils of red energy weaving through her flesh, snapping bones back into place with sickening cracks. The jagged edges of her shattered ribs knitted together, her crushed organs reformed, and the gaping wounds in her flesh closed seamlessly.
With an unnatural gasp, Orin’s eyes snapped open, glowing faintly red as the stone’s power coursed through her. She staggered to her feet, her senses heightened to a razor’s edge. Every sound, every shift in the air seemed amplified as her eyes darted around, searching for the source of the attack.
Then she saw him.
Emerging from the shadows, a man approached her. But there was something… off. His frame was deceptively human, but his arms were not. They were grotesque and inhumanly large, their blackened, muscular surface pulsating faintly, as if alive. His face was obscured by the shadow of a hood, but his eyes—burning, hellish red—shone through the darkness like twin embers of fury.
Orin's lips curved into a grin, her confidence returning. “Are you mad that I killed your little friends? What were their names? Lump, Glut, that—”
Before she could finish, the man moved, impossibly fast. Another blow connected. She didn’t even have time to raise her weapons in defense before her head exploded like a ripe fruit, her skull bursting apart in a gruesome spray of blood and bone.
For the second time, Orin’s lifeless body crumpled to the ground. And for the second time, the Netherstone glowed, its eerie red light reaching out like claws. Shards of her skull and fragments of her brain twitched and crawled back toward her body, reassembling with horrifying precision. Skin regrew over the reconstructed bone, and within moments, Orin stood once more, her grin wider than ever.
Her hand instinctively went to her scimitar, her fingers tightening around the hilt. In her other hand, the dagger glimmered faintly, its Netherstone pulsing like a heartbeat. She crouched into a predatory stance, her eyes blazing with unhinged glee. “So, you like to play rough, do you?” she hissed. Without waiting for a response, she lunged forward, both weapons swinging in a flurry of steel and death.
Slash after slash, she attacked with relentless ferocity. Her blades moved with blinding speed, arcs of silver cutting through the night as she aimed to tear the man apart. But he moved like a ghost, effortlessly sidestepping each strike, his movements fluid and almost mocking. No matter how fast or hard she swung, her blades never found their mark.
“That’s it? That’s all the so-called Champion of Bhaal can muster?” the man taunted, his voice deep and calm, laced with disdain. “Pathetic.”
Orin’s grin faltered for a moment, replaced by a snarl of fury. Her teeth clenched, her eyes wild with rage. “Shut up! Shut up! Stay still, you rotten maggot! So I can splay your intestines across this cursed forest!” she roared.
To her surprise, the man stopped, his monstrous arms hanging limp at his sides. Orin’s lips curled back into a manic grin as she took her opportunity. She struck, her blades sinking into his flesh with sickening ease. Again and again, she slashed and stabbed, each strike cutting deeper than the last. Blood poured from him in rivers, pooling at her feet.
She giggled, a high, unhinged sound, as her scimitar carved through his arms. Starting with his fingers, she worked her way up, slicing through sinew and bone until his limbs were nothing more than useless stumps. The man didn’t scream, didn’t flinch. He simply stood there, his burning eyes locked onto hers. But Orin didn’t care. She was drunk on the violence, every cut sending a shiver of pleasure through her twisted mind.
With her final act, she raised her dagger high, gripping it in a reverse hold. She plunged it into the man’s skull, the blade sinking in to the hilt. His glowing red eyes flickered and dimmed, the light fading as his body slumped forward.
Orin let out a breathless laugh, licking her lips as she yanked the dagger free. “That’s it? That’s all you had? You came to kill me, and this is all you could do?” She shook her head, mock disappointment in her voice. “What a letdown.”
But before she could revel in her victory, the ground beneath her feet shifted. A sudden spike of jagged black rock erupted from the earth, impaling her straight through the chest and lifting her into the air. She gasped, blood bubbling from her lips as more spikes followed, spearing her legs, arms, and torso. The jagged spikes twisted and grew within her, ravaging her body from the inside out, tearing her apart in ways she couldn’t even comprehend.
The Netherstone flared to life once more, its red aura struggling to repair the catastrophic damage. Flesh knitted back together only to be ripped apart again as the spikes twisted and grew deeper. Orin’s screams echoed through the forest, raw and guttural, as the stone fought to keep her alive, prolonging her agony.
Her vision blurred as she hung there, suspended in torment, her body a grotesque canvas of regeneration and destruction. Blood streamed from her wounds, dripping onto the black spikes and pooling beneath her. Her once-manic grin was gone, replaced by a grimace of pure agony.
Below her, the man stood, untouched by his injuries. His red eyes glowed brighter now, filled not with anger, but with something far worse—judgment.
“You thought you were unstoppable,” he said, his voice low and chilling. “You thought your stone made you untouchable. Orin.” He stepped closer, his shadow stretching over her trembling, impaled form. “Now, let’s see how many times you can die before that cursed thing gives up on you.”
Orin’s eyes widened, her grin returning, though now it was filled with desperation, her laughter hollow. “You think… you can break me? I’ll… I’ll kill you. I’ll—”
Another spike erupted from the ground, piercing her throat and silencing her laughter. Her body convulsed as the Netherstone glowed again. The torment was far from over, and for the first time, Orin felt something unfamiliar clawing at the edges of her mind.
Fear.
----------------------------------------
The torture didn’t last long.
Orin's broken body, impaled on jagged black spikes, began to twitch violently. Her lips curled into a grin even as blood spilled from them, her eyes glowing with maddened delight. A thick, bloody aura enveloped her, swirling and pulsing like a living entity. The spikes that skewered her dissolved into nothingness, as though the divine wrath of Bhaal himself had disintegrated them. Her convulsions became more violent, her laughter louder and more deranged, echoing across the blood-drenched battlefield.
Alex stood motionless, his crimson eyes narrowing. He could feel the shift, the oppressive magic building within Orin's shattered form. It was primal, a raw, festering power that clawed at the air like the cries of countless murdered souls.
"Come on, Bhaal," Alex sneered, his voice cutting through the cacophony like a blade. "This is all you’ve got? No wander Myrkul and Bane always treated you like a mad dog . Do you still lick yourself between the legs." His words were laced with mockery, his tone a razor-sharp taunt, borrowed from the fragmented memories of Myrkul, the god of decay.
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Orin's laughter exploded into a manic cackle that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Her flesh rippled unnaturally, her body collapsing into a pool of viscous, steaming blood. The liquid hissed and bubbled, its surface rippling as though something monstrous stirred beneath. The air grew heavier, charged with the promise of unspeakable violence.
Then, from the crimson mire, a clawed hand erupted with a deafening crack. Its grotesque fingers, elongated and jagged like shards of obsidian, dug into the earth, tearing furrows into the ground as though the very world recoiled from its touch. Another hand followed, and then another. Four massive arms clawed their way free, pulling an immense, grotesque figure from the pool of blood.
The Slayer emerged.
It rose from the blood like a nightmare born from slaughter itself. Towering and hunched, its monstrous frame shuddered with every step as if the weight of its own power threatened to collapse the earth beneath it. Its jagged black spikes, each dripping with fresh ichor, jutted out from its sinewy, pulsating orange flesh, giving it the appearance of a living weapon crafted in Bhaal’s forge of death.
The Slayer’s head, crowned with coiling, blood-drenched horns, tilted upward as it unleashed a deafening roar. The sound was not of this world; it was a symphony of agony, a thousand wails of murdered souls entwined into a single, bone-shaking note. Its burning red eyes locked onto Alex, glowing like twin suns set to scorch the earth. Beneath those unholy eyes, its maw gaped open, revealing row upon row of jagged, bloodstained teeth, each one glinting like a butcher's knife under torchlight. A serpent-like tongue flicked out, tasting the coppery scent of spilled blood in the air.
Its grotesquely overdeveloped limbs flexed, the cords of blackened muscle rippling beneath its spiked hide. The Slayer’s enormous claws, each the length of a sword, glistened with ichor that dripped to the ground, sizzling as it carved tiny fissures into the earth. With every step it took, the ground cracked and fissured beneath its weight, blackened scorch marks radiating outward like spiderwebs. The glowing sigil of Bhaal burned brightly on its chest, pulsating with a crimson light that mirrored the creature’s heartbeat. Each pulse radiated waves of malevolence.
Behind it, its massive barbed tail lashed through the air with terrifying precision, its jagged tip carving gashes into the ground. The tail seemed alive, moving with a predator’s intent, a weapon as much a part of the Slayer as its monstrous claws.
Alex didn’t flinch. He didn’t even step back. The oppressive aura of the Slayer rolled over him like a tide of death, but his crimson eyes remained locked on the abomination.
"You finally make your appearance, Bhaal?" Alex murmured, his voice calm, measured, yet dripping with disdain. "This is what you call wrath? Let me guess—it’s all spikes and no brains." He smirked, his words deliberate daggers aimed at the pride of the God of Murder.
The Slayer roared again, its guttural voice shaking the very air, but Alex’s posture remained unshaken. He flexed his fingers, and the faint hum of his own power stirred around him, whispering promises of retribution. The crimson glow in his eyes intensified, and he tilted his head slightly, observing the Slayer as though it were merely another obstacle in his path.
"Come on," Alex muttered, his voice almost bored. "Show me what you’ve got."
The Slayer lunged forward, its claws tearing through the earth with devastating force, its eyes blazing with bloodlust. But Alex didn’t move. He stood his ground, a storm of calm amidst the chaos.
Yet there was an undeniable shift in the air, a deep rumbling that seemed to come from the very marrow of existence itself. Alex, cloaked in a sinister, crimson aura, raised his hands, and the darkness itself seemed to ripple in response.
The Slayer roared, its cry a cacophony of souls screaming in torment, and lunged forward with inhuman speed. Its claws slashed at Alex, but the moment they connected, they struck a barrier of pulsating infernal energy. Sparks of fiery crimson and deep shadow erupted as Alex’s Infernal Shield absorbed the devastating blow, the ground beneath them cracking and smoldering under the sheer force of the clash.
“Let me show you what true power looks like.” Alex growled, his voice layered with the undertones of hell itself.
With a flick of his hand, he unleashed a wave of hellfire, the flames roaring to life as they surged toward the Slayer. The white fire clung to its body, not merely burning its flesh but searing its essence.
The Slayer retaliated, its tail whipping toward Alex with blinding speed. The barbed spike tore through the air, aiming to pierce him, but Alex caught it mid-strike. He send a wave of dark necrotic energy through the beast’s flesh, the tail blackening and rotting . The Slayer howled in rage, but its regeneration kicked in, flesh knitting itself back together even as Alex’s corruption spread.
The Slayer lunged again, its claws a blur of deadly motion, tearing through the air with an unrelenting ferocity. It struck Alex like a battering ram, the sheer power of its attack overwhelming his defense. The impact sent Alex hurtling backward like a ragdoll, his body crashing through trees, each trunk splintering into shards before he finally slammed into the ground, carving a trench in the dirt.
For a brief moment, the battlefield fell silent, the only sounds the crackling of distant flames and the faint rustling of disturbed leaves. The Slayer stood amidst the carnage, its claws dripping with Alex's blood, its chest heaving as it anticipated the kill.
Then, a low, guttural growl echoed through the darkness, primal and menacing. It wasn't the sound of pain or defeat—it was something far worse.
From the shadows of the wreckage, Alex emerged. His body had changed. Dark, jagged plates of armor now encased him, each segment radiating an eerie heat as glowing cracks of molten fire pulsed like veins beneath the surface. Smoke coiled off him in ghostly tendrils, the ground beneath his feet scorched and blackened with every step.
His face was hidden behind a mask of obsidian, its surface carved with intricate infernal runes that shimmered faintly, as if alive with a demonic pulse. His eyes, though—his eyes blazed with a light so intense, they seemed to pierce through the very soul. Twin orbs of molten gold burned within the mask, their gaze locked on the Slayer with a fury that froze the creature in its tracks.
Alex’s hands had morphed into monstrous claws, their edges glowing with bloody flames that flickered and danced hungrily, eager for destruction. When he flexed his fingers, the fire roared brighter, as though feeding off his anger. His very presence was suffocating, the air around him thick with malice and the promise of unrelenting violence.
The Slayer hesitated for the first time. Its primal instincts screamed at it to attack, but something deeper—an ancient, animalistic fear—forced it to remain still, its red eyes wide with uncertainty.
A sharp crack echoed through the air as the lower part of Alex's mask splintered, revealing a jagged maw of teeth that looked as though they had been carved from obsidian itself, sharp and glinting like shards of volcanic glass. A sound somewhere between a growl and a laugh emanated from his throat.
“Stronger, huh?” Alex’s voice was a distorted growl, layered with something inhuman. His words carried a weight that made the very ground tremble beneath him. “Let’s test that strength.”
As he spoke, the fire within his armor surged, the molten cracks glowing brighter and brighter until his entire form seemed like a walking inferno. With a sudden burst of speed, he lunged forward, the ground exploding beneath him as his claws ignited in a storm of flames.
The Slayer braced itself, but for the first time, doubt flickered in its gaze. Whatever Alex had become, it was something far more terrifying ... It had awakened a monster, and now, the battle had only just begun.
With a guttural roar, Alex launched himself at the beast. His claws clashed against its own, each strike sending shockwaves through the battlefield. The Slayer’s movements, though savage, were no longer unchallenged. Alex fought as its equal, his strikes precise and devastating, every blow a manifestation of his wrath.
Sensing it was being matched, the Slayer released a barrage of its obsidian spikes, each one tipped with Bhaal’s murderous energy. Alex, undeterred, raised his clawed hand, carving a rift in the air . The spikes vanished into the portal, only to reappear above the Slayer, raining down on the beast with deadly precision.
The Slayer roared in pain and fury, its body riddled with its own weapons, but even then, it showed no signs of faltering.
The battle raged with unrelenting ferocity, each clash of titanic strength and malice shaking the earth. The Slayer’s claws struck true, carving deep gashes into Alex’s flesh. Blood poured from his wounds, staining the ground in dark crimson rivers, but Alex refused to yield. His regeneration remained dormant by his will, the pain fueling him instead of hindering him.
Each wound seemed to ignite something primal within him, a dark reservoir of power that surged stronger with every slash and stab. His movements became faster, more precise, his strikes landing with bone-shattering force. Sparks flew as claws met claws, and the infernal glow of Alex's molten armor flared brighter with every blow.
The Slayer howled in fury, its claws sinking deep into Alex’s side, the sickening crunch of ribs audible. But Alex didn’t flinch. Instead, a dark, guttural laugh erupted from his cracked obsidian maw, sending chills even through the monstrous Slayer.
“Is this it?” Alex snarled, his blazing eyes locking onto the Slayer’s flickering gaze. “Is this all your god has to offer? You’ll need more than brute strength to kill me.”
With those words, Alex drove his clawed hand into the Slayer’s chest, forcing the creature back with a blast of infernal energy that sent it sprawling.
As Alex advanced, his very presence twisted the battlefield. The air thickened, heavy with the stench of burning sulfur and the oppressive weight of corruption. Shadows writhed unnaturally, coiling around him like living serpents. He raised both hands, his claws gleaming with malevolent energy, and with a roar that split the heavens, he summoned a column of blood-red energy.
The pillar shot skyward, piercing the heavens with a light that wasn’t light—it was darkness made manifest, crimson and black streaks twisting like veins across the sky. The ground around it cracked and split, releasing waves of pulsating energy that rippled outward in shockwaves. Trees withered, the air grew bitter and acrid, and the very essence of the battlefield seemed to buckle under the weight of Alex’s power.
The Slayer staggered, its regeneration slowing as the energy disrupted its connection to Bhaal. The unholy aura around it flickered, its glow dimming as though suffocated. It let out a roar of frustration, lunging again, but its movements were sluggish, its claws no longer as sharp, its strikes lacking the force they once carried.
Alex smirked, his infernal grin splitting the lower half of his mask further, exposing more of his jagged obsidian teeth.
Sensing the creature’s growing weakness, Alex planted his feet, summoning every ounce of power coursing through him. Flames erupted around him, swirling in a violent storm of white and crimson, the ground beneath him glowing like molten lava.
With a thunderous roar, Alex unleashed a torrent of hellfire, a massive wave of white flames that consumed everything in its path. The fire roared with unbridled fury, twisting and churning as though alive, a manifestation of Alex’s wrath. The Slayer raised its claws to shield itself, but the flames were relentless, scorching not only its flesh but the divine essence that sustained it.
The inferno engulfed the battlefield, erupting in a deafening explosion that left a massive crater in its wake. Smoke billowed into the sky, the acrid scent of burned earth and charred flesh filling the air.
As the dust began to settle, Alex stepped to the edge of the crater, his molten armor still glowing, his clawed hands smoldering with residual flames. His eyes, blazing with unrelenting intensity, locked onto the Slayer.
The once-mighty creature was now a broken shadow of its former self. Its obsidian spikes were shattered, its monstrous form cracked and bleeding, and its chest heaved with labored breaths. Its regeneration faltered, the unholy light in its eyes dimmed.
Alex stood tall, his infernal presence radiating pure dominance. He stared down at the creature.
The Slayer let out a final, defiant growl, but it could do little more than stagger, its once-terrifying power reduced to a flicker. The battle was nearly over, and the tides had turned irrevocably in Alex’s favor.
The battlefield simmered in eerie silence, the ground cracked and scorched from the monumental clash. Alex loomed over the crumpled form of the Slayer, its once-fearsome body twitching weakly as dark ichor pooled beneath it. He moved deliberately, his steps slow and purposeful. With a casual motion, he nudged the creature with his feet, sending its hulking frame sprawling onto its back like a broken puppet.
A blade shimmered to life in his hand, forged from pure infernal energy. The weapon hummed with destructive power, its crimson glow illuminating Alex’s masked face. One slash—that’s all it would take to carve out the Netherstone lodged in the Slayer’s chest. Without it, the monster would die.
Alex raised the blade, his gaze sharp and unyielding. Just as the edge began to descend, a blur of motion flashed in the corner of his vision.
WHAM!
The force struck him like a meteor, sending him hurtling across the battlefield. Alex twisted through the air, to steady himself. He landed on one knee, his claws raking deep gashes into the scorched earth to halt his momentum. Smoke and dust swirled around him as he straightened, his muscles tense, his senses razor-sharp.
His gaze locked onto the one responsible—a figure stepping out of the haze with a lazy, confident swagger.
“Ouch,” the man said, flexing a gauntleted fist that still radiated the aftershock of the blow. “That kinda hurt.”
Alex’s eyes focused, scanning the newcomer. The man was clad in sleek, blackened armor etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the dim light. His face was calm, almost amused, as if the chaos surrounding them was beneath him.
The man—Gortash—turned his attention to the Slayer. He crouched beside the injured beast, placing a gauntleted hand on its mangled frame. His demeanor remained casual, even dismissive, as if Alex’s very presence was an afterthought.
“You had your fun, Orin,” Gortash said, his voice smooth yet commanding. “Let’s go home.”
Alex’s instincts roared to life. His muscles coiled like a predator’s, and before Gortash could finish his motion, Alex moved.
Bending the space around him, Alex appeared beside Gortash in a blink, his blade poised to strike. His movements were swift, precise—an executioner's strike aimed to stop them both.
But the blade met empty air.
Gortash and the Slayer were gone, vanishing as though they’d never existed.
Alex froze, his infernal blade dissipating into embers as his hand fell to his side. He scanned the area, his crimson eyes blazing , searching for traces of magic or distortion. Nothing. No portal residue. No faint shimmer of teleportation. No lingering scent of spellcraft.
But there should be something.
Closing his eyes, Alex extended his senses. He reached out, feeling the psionic echoes left by Gortash’s departure. The echoes were faint, but they were warped and stretched.
He had moved.
So fast, so impossibly fast, that time itself had bent around him. Alex replayed the instant in his mind, the moment when his blade had been poised to strike. To him, it had been a flawless, deadly motion, faster than any mortal should have been able to perceive. Yet Gortash had disappeared in that same instant, not as if he had fled, but as if the world itself had been too slow to keep up with him.
He had accelerated himself beyond the constraints of time.
The psionic echo in Alex’s mind made more sense now—its sharpness, its unnatural precision. Gortash’s movement wasn’t magic. It was something more terrifying. By speeding himself up to such an extreme degree, Gortash had stepped into a realm where time crawled at a snail’s pace, leaving Alex—and the rest of reality—frozen in his wake.
Alex’s clawed hand clenching tightly.
His infernal aura dimmed as the shadows around him grew thicker, more oppressive. The battlefield, once alight with the clash of titans, now felt cold and lifeless.
“Running won’t save you,” Alex muttered, his voice a low growl that echoed through the empty air.
The shadows began to twist and coil around him, responding to his simmering rage. They rose like living tendrils, enveloping him in an inky embrace.
The shadows swallowed him whole.
And Alex, vanished into the abyss, his pursuit far from over.