The air felt heavy as the man spoke, his voice reverberating through the chamber like the tolling of a funeral bell.
"You gaze upon Murder's progeny, child," he declared, his fiery, golden eyes locked on Alex, burning with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the soul. The sheer weight of his presence was overwhelming, a relic of a bygone era where chaos and death reigned unchecked.
Alex’s mind churned as he studied the man. That voice—it was unmistakable. He had heard it before, not long ago, from a figure in the refugee encampment, a man missing both his left eye and arm . But that man carried none of this man's dread aura and looked older .
Sarevok Anchev. The name carried weight in the memories of those Alex had consumed. Once a mortal man, now something far greater—or worse. Sarevok, a name etched into the blood-soaked annals of Baldur’s Gate’s history, the Bhaalspawn who had almost reduced the city to rubble a century ago.
Sarevok leaned forward slightly on his throne, his massive form casting a long shadow over the dais. His armor gleamed like polished silver, but every edge, every plate, seemed designed for violence. The grotesque maw of his horned helmet caught the flickering torchlight, giving the impression that the beast’s mouth was alive, gnashing in anticipation.
Before Alex could respond, the figure seated directly below Sarevok spoke, her voice laced with a chilling authority that commanded attention.
"Hiss most ill-trusted zealots," she hissed, her words dripping with disdain and conviction.
Alex turned his gaze to her. Recognition flickered in his mind like a lightning strike, memories surfacing from Dolor’s twisted past. This was Amelyssan the Blackhearted, once the High Priestess of Bhaal, a figure feared and reviled in equal measure. Her power had been unparalleled in her time, a master of both divine and arcane arts. Legends painted her as a near-demigod at the peak of her strength, a woman who could summon armies of otherworldly creatures and rend enemies asunder with her massive forked weapon.
Her appearance betrayed none of her legend’s brutality. She was hauntingly beautiful, her blonde hair brushing her shoulders, a silver diadem resting on her brow. She wore sleeveless leather armor adorned with blood-stained runes, her gauntleted hands resting idly on the arms of her throne. Yet, for all her vitality, there was no mistaking her for the living. Her aura reeked of death, a cold, oppressive energy that clung to her like a funeral shroud. Alex’s senses confirmed what his instincts already knew—Amelyssan was undead.
The next to speak was the spectral figure on the left. Her voice carried a sharp, venomous edge, cutting through the heavy air.
"HIS FAITHFULL DEPARTED," she said, her tone unwavering.
She was a drow, her skin the color of obsidian, clad in gleaming bluish-green armor that shimmered faintly, likely crafted from adamantite. A jagged scar ran down the left side of her face, from cheek to neck, a mark of battles fought and survived. Her identity was undeniable—Sendai. Another of Bhaal’s zealots, a powerful cleric and wizard in life, now reduced to this undead shell of her former glory.
Finally, the last of the tribunal spoke. Her voice was soft, almost lilting, but carried an undertone of deadly precision.
"Prodigal servants, each returned to do his bidding eternally," the woman said, her short-cropped hair framing a face hardened by years of combat.
She was the simplest in appearance, dressed in unadorned leather armor, yet her reputation spoke volumes. Illasera, a warrior of unparalleled skill. Her unassuming appearance was a sharp contrast to the others, but there was no mistaking the deadly grace she exuded, even in undeath.
Alex’s gaze swept over the Tribunal, his mind racing as he took in the grim tableau. Three figures, bound in death to their murderous god, their power and devotion eternal. The room itself seemed to amplify their presence, the oppressive silence broken only by the faint crackling of distant torches.
Then Sarevok spoke again, his voice carrying the weight of finality.
"This is the court of the Dread Lord's tribunal. I am its custodian," he said, his fiery eyes narrowing. "Here come those who seek to transcend. Aspirants of his most profane order—the would-be Unholy Assassins of Bhaal."
The words hung in the air like a death knell, and Alex could feel the weight of countless lives lost in the pursuit of this terrible path. The Tribunal, the living embodiment of Bhaal’s legacy, had convened, and Alex stood at its precipice.
The chamber trembled as Phalar Aluve appeared at Alex’s side, its blade glowing with a radiant light that cut through the oppressive darkness. The sword hummed with divine power, its presence a stark defiance to the unholy aura that permeated the Murder Tribunal. Alex’s hand gripped the hilt tightly, and for a fleeting moment, the Tribunal hesitated, their once-unshakable confidence now faltering under the weapon's luminous defiance.
But then, the orb nestled deep within Alex’s chest pulsed. Its vibration resonated like a drumbeat of annihilation, and in an instant, a disruptive anti-magic field spread out from him, enveloping the room in its oppressive grasp. The glow of Phalar Aluve faded to nothing, its divine power reduced to that of an ordinary blade.
Alex didn’t falter. He didn’t need the sword’s magic. He didn’t need anything but himself.
A ripple coursed through his body as his form shifted. The dark, organic armor of the Blacklight virus covered him like living shadows, its tendrils writhing and solidifying into sharp, jagged plates that exuded malice.
Amelyssan and Sendai stepped back instinctively, their undead forms sensing the tectonic shift in the air.
Sarevok, however, only smirked, his eyes burning with amusement. He stepped forward, his imposing frame casting an even larger shadow.
"You will make a most beautiful offering to the Lord of Murder," Sarevok declared, his voice dripping with anticipation.
Alex raised the now-mundane sword, its sharp edge catching the faint flicker of torchlight, and pointed its tip directly at Sarevok.
"Tonight, Bhaal dies," he declared, his voice steady and unyielding.
Sarevok laughed, a deep, guttural sound that echoed throughout the chamber, but the laughter died quickly as Alex moved.
With a sound like a thunderclap, Alex vanished from where he stood. The red carpet beneath him tore apart in the wake of his launch, and before Sarevok could react, Alex’s fist slammed into his chest like a battering ram. The impact sent Sarevok flying backward into his throne of bones, the massive structure shattering into jagged shards under the force of the collision.
Alex was on Amelyssan before she could blink. His blade came down in a brutal arc, cleaving her diadem in two and tearing through her torso. The High Priestess staggered back, her lifeless body crumbling into ash as her essence was obliterated.
Sendai and Illasera moved in unison, the drow brandishing her adamantite scimitars while the other unsheathed a pair of deadly short swords. They struck with the precision of seasoned killers, their blades a blur of motion.
Alex didn’t even flinch.
One of Sendai’s blades glanced off his armor, and in the same motion, Alex’s free hand morphed into blade of his own—black and jagged, the embodiment of carnage. He swung it in a wide arc, the force of the strike ripping the air apart. Sendai’s form was split in half before she could even register the attack, her spectral remains evaporating into nothingness.
Illasera darted around him, her speed supernatural, but it was nothing compared to Alex’s reflexes. He caught her by the throat with one hand, lifting her off the ground as though she weighed nothing. Her blades clattered to the floor as she struggled, but Alex’s grip was unyielding.
With a squeeze, her form shattered like glass, her undead essence snuffed out in an instant.
Sarevok roared, rising from the ruins of his throne, his armor dented but unbroken. He drew his massive sword, its wicked edge glinting with murderous intent.
"You think strength alone will save you? I have slaughtered armies!" he bellowed, charging at Alex with all his might.
Alex met him head-on, his speed and strength overwhelming. The clash of their blades sent shockwaves through the chamber, the sheer force of their battle cracking the stone walls and sending debris raining down. Sarevok swung his sword with the force of a titan, but Alex sidestepped with inhuman agility, countering with a punch that cratered the armored man’s chest plate.
Sarevok staggered, coughing up blood, but still, he refused to fall.
"I am Bhaal's weapon!" he spat, his voice a mixture of rage and desperation.
Alex’s form shifted again, the Blacklight virus twisting and warping his body into something even more monstrous. His arms became massive, bladed appendages, and his armor pulsed with crimson energy. He loomed over Sarevok like an executioner, his visor glowing brighter.
With a single, decisive swing, Alex’s blade-arm cleaved through Sarevok, splitting him from shoulder to hip. Blood sprayed across the chamber as the once-mighty warrior fell to his knees, his eyes wide with shock.
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As Sarevok crumbled, Alex stood amidst the carnage, unscathed and unshaken. The Tribunal lay in ruins, its once-mighty members reduced to nothing but echoes of their former glory.
The chamber grew silent, save for the faint hum of the anti-magic field. Alex glanced around, his gaze lingering on the piles of ash and broken thrones.
"Nothing is immortal," he muttered, his voice cold. "Not before me."
The anti-magic field dissipated as the pulsing orb in Alex’s chest calmed, leaving the chamber steeped in an uneasy quiet. Alex’s breath steadied, his crimson eyes dimming as his monstrous, Blacklight-covered form reverted to something more human. His gaze fell upon the remnants of Sarevok’s broken body, strewn amidst the ruins of the Tribunal. Without hesitation, he reached out, his hand engulfing what remained of the once-mighty warrior.
The Blacklight virus surged from his arm, tendrils wrapping around Sarevok’s flesh and bone like ravenous predators. His body was consumed in seconds, but the process didn’t end there. The orb in Alex’s chest flared to life once again, this time devouring Sarevok’s very soul. A faint scream echoed through the chamber—a sound that was not entirely human—as the essence of the fallen Bhaalspawn was drawn into Alex’s being.
For a moment, Alex staggered, the weight of Sarevok’s life crashing into him like a tidal wave. The memories weren’t just visions—they were raw, visceral experiences. Every triumph, every torment, every shred of hope and despair flooded his mind as if he were living them himself. The sensation was overwhelming, a storm of emotions that blurred the line between Alex and the monstrous man whose essence he now absorbed.
He saw it—the beginning. A temple hidden deep within the Forest of Wyrms, its dark halls echoing with the cries of terrified children. The air was stifling, thick with the scent of blood and death. Sarevok, no more than six years old, stood trembling among the other children, his tear-streaked face illuminated by the flickering light of sacrificial braziers. The Bhaalist cultists moved methodically, preparing their dark ritual with cold precision. A knife glinted in the dim light, raised high over the altar.
But just as the blade descended, the doors burst open. A group of Harpers stormed in, their swords flashing with righteous fury. Chaos erupted. Cultists screamed as they were cut down, the cries of children mingling with the sounds of battle. Sarevok stood frozen, his small body trembling as blood splattered across the stone floor. When the slaughter ended and the surviving children were gathered, Sarevok found himself left behind. Forgotten in the chaos, he watched as the Harpers disappeared into the forest, leaving him alone in the desecrated temple.
The vision shifted. Sarevok was older now, a hollow-cheeked urchin scrounging for scraps on the filthy streets of Baldur’s Gate. Hunger gnawed at him like a wild beast, his frail body battered by the cruel indifference of the city. One day, a man approached him. His face was hard, his eyes calculating.
“You’re stronger than this,” the man said. His name was Rieltar Anchev, though Sarevok would later come to know him as a manipulative foster father. Rieltar took him in, offering food, shelter, and what seemed like an escape from the streets. But it wasn’t love that drove Rieltar—it was ambition.
Alex saw through Sarevok’s eyes the cold lessons Rieltar taught him. One night, Sarevok’s foster mother dared to question Rieltar’s plans. Her defiance was met with death. Sarevok watched, horror-stricken, as Rieltar strangled the woman with a garrote. Her lifeless body crumpled to the floor, and Sarevok’s anguished cries filled the room.
“Weakness is a burden,” Rieltar had said, his voice devoid of pity. “And you will learn to carry it, or it will crush you.”
As the memories surged forward, Sarevok grew from a frightened boy into a man driven by rage and ambition. He was haunted by dreams—vivid, bloody dreams of slaughter and destruction. In these dreams, a voice whispered to him, urging him to embrace his destiny. The pull of something greater gnawed at him, and he sought answers wherever he could find them.
Alex felt the weight of Sarevok’s desperation as he confronted a priest of Bhaal, demanding an explanation for the dreams. The priest offered only riddles, and in a fit of rage, Sarevok drew his blade. The man’s blood spilled across the temple floor, marking the first of many murders Sarevok would commit in his quest for power.
The visions accelerated, showing Sarevok’s rise within the Iron Throne. He was no longer just a man—he was a force of chaos, orchestrating war and discord to further his ambitions. The prophecy of Alaundo burned in his mind: “Deaths they bring shall awaken the father, and through them, he will rise.” Sarevok understood what was required. Death on a massive scale. A war that would shake the Sword Coast to its core.
Alex felt the cold, calculating logic behind Sarevok’s actions. He saw the manipulation, the assassinations, the careful orchestration of events that led to Sarevok’s ascension. He saw the faces of those Sarevok betrayed, their shock and anguish seared into his memory.
The vision shifted to the climactic battle in the Undercity. Sarevok faced his fellow Bhaalspawn, his plans unraveling as his own hubris became his undoing. The fight was brutal, and when Sarevok fell, Alex felt the finality of it—the bitter mix of rage, regret, and resignation as Sarevok’s body dissolved into golden dust.
But it wasn’t the end.
Alex saw Sarevok’s essence, a fragment of Bhaal’s unholy power, transported to the Abyss. There, Sarevok’s wraith lingered, twisted and incomplete. He was a shadow of his former self, consumed by the knowledge that he had failed. When Abdel Adrian , the Bhaalspawn that had ended his life , encountered him, Sarevok’s desperation was palpable. He struck a bargain, offering to aid his sibling in exchange for a piece of their divine soul.
When Sarevok was reborn, it was not as a villain but as a man burdened by his past. Alex saw the battles he fought, the adventures that took him across Toril. He routed an orc army threatening Berdusk, marched on Westgate as a would-be conqueror, and even journeyed to Kara-Tur to bury Tomoko, the one woman he had truly loved.
Yet even in these acts, Sarevok found no peace. His soul was fractured, haunted by the echoes of his father’s curse. He was a man forever caught between the monster he had been and the man he could have been.
Amidst the torrent of memories flooding Alex’s mind, a fragment stood out—a set of recollections deeply buried, cloaked in shadows, as though Sarevok himself had tried to forget them. These memories were different, resonating with a sorrow and humanity that clashed against the monstrous ambition and bloodlust that defined Sarevok’s life.
Through the haze of violence and manipulation, Alex uncovered an undeniable truth: Sarevok had once experienced love. Not the fleeting, carnal type he was infamous for, but something deeper, something genuine. He saw a woman—a changeling whose features were blurred and indistinct, as though someone had meticulously erased her face and name from the memories. Yet, the feelings remained, raw and unfiltered. Sarevok had loved her with all his soul, and she, in turn, had seen past the darkness within him.
This love had borne a child—a girl they had named Helena. Alex saw her through Sarevok’s eyes: her delicate features, her radiant smile, and the purity of her laughter that could pierce through even the darkest of his thoughts. For a brief, fleeting time, Sarevok had known peace. He had a family, and in their presence, the seeds of something foreign began to take root in his heart: hope.
But as Alex delved deeper, the memories began to shift, to fracture like a corrupted cassette tape playing on a broken recorder. It was as if someone had tampered with Sarevok’s very essence, ripping out the parts of him that dared to defy his father’s legacy. The warmth of those moments with his family twisted into something grotesque and horrifying.
Helena, once a calm and gentle girl, began to change in his memories. Her lovely face twisted into a savage sneer, her eyes alight with a cruelty that rivaled even Sarevok’s darkest instincts. It was as if something had infected her soul, warping her into a predator driven by her bloodline’s cursed legacy. She had become a reflection of Bhaal’s evil, a manifestation of his eternal hunger for chaos and murder.
And then Alex saw it—the moment Sarevok’s humanity was utterly obliterated. The memories came crashing in like a tidal wave, grotesque and unrelenting. Sarevok, once a man struggling against his darker urges, gave in fully. He saw himself with Helena, not as her father but as her partner, driven by a madness that was neither his own nor entirely foreign.
They had a child. A daughter.
Her name rose to the surface like a whisper from the abyss: Orin. The girl Sarevok and his own daughter had brought into the world.
Orin’s face emerged in Alex’s mind, vivid and unflinching. She was a being of pure malice, her youthful appearance a cruel mask for the depravity that seethed beneath. Her smile was sharp and knowing, her eyes glimmering with the promise of violence. In her, the curse of Bhaal reached its pinnacle. She was not just a product of her bloodline; she was its culmination. A child born of unnatural union, steeped in the essence of Murder itself.
Alex felt Sarevok’s anguish, though it was buried beneath layers of rage and corruption. The man who had once cherished his family, who had dared to dream of something beyond his father’s shadow, was gone. Stripped bare, reshaped, and devoured by the will of Bhaal, he became little more than a vessel for the god’s profane designs.
As Alex absorbed the final shard of Sarevok’s essence, he felt its power intertwine with his own. It was faint but undeniable—a fragment of divinity, a piece of Bhaal’s legacy. The weight of Sarevok’s life and choices bore down on him, filling him with both sorrow and resolve.
Sarevok had been many things: a child abandoned, a man forged in cruelty, a villain consumed by ambition, and a tortured soul seeking redemption, just like him. In his life and death, he was a testament to the terrible power of Bhaal’s bloodline.
Alex clenched his fists, the memory of Sarevok’s voice lingering in his mind. This was not just a story of one man’s fall—it was a warning. And Alex swore he would use what he had taken not to follow in Sarevok’s footsteps.
Alex turned sharply to the right, his footsteps echoing faintly in the oppressive silence of the halls. The air around him felt heavier now, suffused with the residual power of Bhaal’s essence that coursed through his veins. The fragment of the god’s unholy divinity pulsed like a second heartbeat within him, sharpening his senses, hardening his resolve. He could feel its dark influence clawing at the edges of his mind, whispering promises of strength, urging him to embrace the carnage that lay ahead.
But Alex was no puppet. He had taken the fragment not to revel in destruction but to wield it as a weapon. This power wasn’t his destination; it was his key. Now, all he needed was the door—the gateway into Bhaal’s domain. Once inside, Alex vowed, the Lord of Murder would die by his hand.
He stopped before a massive, round chamber, its entrance flanked by crumbling pillars etched with ancient runes. The air here was thick with the coppery stench of blood, so strong it burned his nostrils. Shadows danced across the jagged walls, illuminated by the sickly glow of a blood-red pool at the chamber’s center. The pool churned sluggishly, as if alive, its surface rippling in patterns that seemed to mock the natural laws of the world.
Skulls littered the ground, their hollow eye sockets staring up at Alex as if accusing him of trespassing into a place no mortal should tread. The bones were not old and brittle but fresh, their surfaces slick with crimson that hadn’t yet dried. Each skull seemed to radiate an aura of despair, remnants of the countless lives sacrificed in Bhaal’s name.
But the most striking feature of the chamber wasn’t the grotesque decor—it was the figures standing silently within.
They were like ghosts, their forms translucent but solid enough to cast faint shadows in the crimson glow. Each was drenched in blood, their eyes vacant and lifeless, yet somehow filled with malice. They bore the unmistakable aura of Bhaal’s servants, remnants of those who had once pledged themselves to the god of murder. These were his sentinels, bound to protect his domain even in death.
Alex tensed as he counted them. At least two dozen. Their blood-slicked forms loomed between him and the pool, their heads turning unnaturally toward him as if they had only now become aware of his presence. Their weapons materialized in their hands—blades , bows , cross bows , staffs and many more glinting with a dark, malevolent energy.
Alex’s body reacted instinctively. His right arm began to shift, the skin rippling and warping as it transformed into a gleaming blade. The weapon was monstrous, a grotesque fusion of flesh and metal, pulsating faintly with the fragment of Bhaal’s essence that now resided within him.
He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the bone-littered ground. Each step felt heavier than the last, not from fear but from the oppressive weight of the moment.