Alex barely had time to register the force before he was sent hurtling across the chamber, the sheer power behind the strike embedding him into the reinforced steel wall. The impact reverberated through the foundry, sending a cascade of metal shards and debris clattering to the ground.
For a moment, his head was nothing but a caved-in mess of fractured bone and shifting flesh, but within seconds, his body repaired itself. The warped metal groaned as he pulled himself free, his form snapping back into shape as he turned his gaze to the figure now standing between him and the Neurocitor.
A man clad in a dark, baroque suit of armor stood with absolute poise, his gauntleted fist still glowing with residual energy from the strike. The intricate filigree of his plating shimmered under the dim foundry lights, but Alex’s focus was drawn to the gauntlet on his right hand—where a Netherstone pulsed ominously, veins of dark purple energy threading through the surrounding armor like creeping tendrils.
Gortash.
The self-proclaimed ruler of Baldur’s Gate stood before him, exuding an air of authority that might have been impressive if Alex hadn’t already torn through everything the man had built.
“I finally got you,” Gortash said, his voice as smooth as ever, yet seething with barely contained rage.
Alex straightened, rolling his shoulders. “You say that like this is a victory.”
Gortash exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, though his clenched jaw betrayed his fury. He began pacing in a slow, deliberate circle around Alex, his tone thick with venom. “You have no idea how much you’ve jeopardized. How much effort—how many years—I’ve poured into building a perfect world, a world where order reigns, where chaos is tamed.”
He stopped, leveling Alex with a glare. “And then you came along, unraveling it all like a petulant child tearing through a masterpiece.”
Alex smirked, brushing dust from his shoulder. “Oh, is that what this is? A masterpiece? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like a glorified slaughterhouse.”
Gortash’s lip curled in disdain. “Sacrifices had to be made. What I created here—what I nearly accomplished—was control. Stability. A future where people weren’t subject to the whims of fickle gods or the brutality of unchecked anarchy.” His eyes darkened. “But you—You refused to see the vision. You cling to your illusions of ‘freedom’ like the rest of the wretched fools too blind to grasp what real power is.”
Alex chuckled, tilting his head. “And let me guess, in this ‘perfect world’ of yours, you sit on the throne, pulling every string?”
Gortash sneered. “Better me than the alternative. Better me than chaos.” His gauntlet flared to life, arcs of violet energy dancing along his fingers. “I built Baldur’s Gate into something greater than it ever was, something unshackled from the weight of incompetent rulers and reckless adventurers. And what do you do? You throw it into disarray, like some self-righteous wraith come to haunt my success.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You ruined everything. You forced my hand. And now, I will return the favor.”
Alex's stance remained firm.
The tension in the air crackled like static, yet he made no move to escalate. Instead, his gaze locked onto Gortash’s, searching for something beyond the anger and arrogance.
"Before we finish this," Alex said, his voice calm but unwavering, "I want to ask you something."
Gortash narrowed his eyes, his gauntlet still pulsing with energy. "Oh? And what could you possibly have to ask me? Seeking last words before your demise?"
Alex ignored the taunt. "Your parents. You could’ve killed them. You had every reason to, every opportunity. But you didn’t. You tadpolled them instead. Why?"
A flicker of something—hesitation, maybe—passed through Gortash’s expression. His smirk wavered, but only for a breath before he scoffed. "You think you understand me? You think you can unearth some tragic revelation to make me hesitate? Spare me."
Alex didn’t relent. "You told them you'd be a perfect family. You wanted to make them love you, didn’t you?"
Gortash’s jaw tensed, and for the first time, he looked away. His hand clenched into a fist, but not to strike—just to contain whatever storm was raging inside him.
"I made them what they should have been," he muttered. "They never cared for me before. I was always a disappointment, always the burden. But under my hand, they became exactly what they should have been. Devoted. Proud. Loving. A family worthy of me."
Alex tilted his head slightly. "But you know it’s not real. You recognize the lie. And yet, you still kept it."
Gortash let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "Of course, I know. I’m not a fool. Their love, their pride—it was manufactured, as artificial as any Steel Watcher. But..." His voice wavered for the first time, just a fraction, before he recovered. "I wanted to see how it felt. Just once. To be the son they cherished. To be wanted. To belong."
He exhaled sharply, as if shaking off an unwanted weight, then met Alex’s gaze again. The fire in his eyes reignited, colder now, hardened. "And you took that from me. Just as you took everything else."
Alex studied him for a long moment, feeling the weight of the man’s words. Beneath all the ambition, the control, the cruelty—there was a boy who had never been loved. But it didn’t change what he had become.
Gortash rolled his shoulders, shaking away the moment of vulnerability as if it had never existed. His lips curled into a smirk, but it no longer reached his eyes. "Enough sentiment. Let’s end this."
Alex gave a slow nod. "Let’s."
Before Gortash could take a step forward, the world around them shifted. The foundry melted away, dissolving into an expanse of white nothingness—a void of Alex's making.
Gortash’s eyes flickered with confusion, but he quickly masked it. He had seen strange magics before, yet something about this place unsettled him. It was weightless, timeless—detached from the reality he had spent so long trying to control.
Alex stood across from him, his presence commanding yet eerily calm. By his side, Phalar Aluve materialized, the greatsword humming with a quiet resonance that seemed to ripple through the void itself. His form was clad in simple yet unyielding metal armor, as if this battle required no grand spectacle—only inevitability. His blue eyes locked onto Gortash’s, an unspoken challenge passing between them.
Gortash scoffed, lips curling into a smirk. "A stage of your own design? How fitting. Do you think theatrics will change the outcome of this?"
Alex remained silent. He simply raised his sword.
Then, they moved.
Steel clashed in the void, their strikes reverberating like echoes in an endless abyss. Gortash moved with brutal efficiency, his Netherstone pulsing, enhancing his movements, accelerating his strikes beyond what should have been possible. His blows came faster than the eye could track—jagged, ruthless, backed by sheer, unrelenting power.
And yet, Alex was keeping up.
Each of Gortash’s brutal swings was met with a parry that sent vibrations rippling up his arms. Each feint was read before it could land. Step by step, Alex was pushing him back, his movements precise, deliberate—unyielding.
Gortash grit his teeth. This was impossible.
Another strike, another deflection. Alex’s sword slid past Gortash’s guard, cutting close enough for the warm sting of blood to trickle down his side.
His Netherstone brightened, forcing the magic to surge through his limbs, his speed reaching unnatural levels. He was moving faster than thought, his body a blur of steel and wrath. He should be untouchable.
And yet.
Alex's blade met him every time.
With each exchange, Gortash felt the weight of inevitability press against him. The weight of a man who had already won.
He roared in frustration, lunging forward with all his might.
Alex sidestepped. And struck.
The void trembled.
Gortash stumbled back, a deep gash searing across his chest, crimson blooming against his dark armor. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. He looked up, eyes burning with fury.
Alex lowered his sword, just slightly, his voice steady. "You were never going to win this, Gortash. You just refused to see it."
The battle wasn’t over. But the outcome had already been decided.
Gortash lunged at him again, blood dripping from the wound in his chest. His desperation was palpable, his movements growing more erratic, fueled by sheer will rather than strategy. He had never been one to fight head-on—he had always controlled from the shadows, pulled strings, dictated the course of others. But now, here he was, swinging wildly, a puppet whose own strings had been severed.
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Alex didn’t enjoy this fight.
As he parried another strike, watching Gortash stumble forward from the force of his own momentum, Alex felt something unsettling. Through Gortash, he saw himself—an old version of himself. It felt as though he was battling a reflection of the man he had once been before he was reborn by the Blacklight Virus.
The old Alex Mercer had held the same ambitions as Gortash. He had sought control, domination, to reshape the world into something he could rule—a place where his power could sculpt a perfect reality for himself and humanity. If Alex had been reborn with his old memories intact after his death, perhaps he would have succeeded in that plan.
Perhaps he would have been the one standing in Gortash’s place, desperate to hold onto something that was already crumbling before him.
Gortash staggered back, his breath ragged. He clutched his chest, his face twisted with fury and disbelief.
"How?" he rasped. "How are you keeping up with me? It should be impossible. I wield the power of a god! My body moves faster than thought itself!"
Alex met his gaze, his expression neutral. "You're fast, but you're bound by the rules of time alone. You push forward, accelerating yourself like a man running downhill, thinking you can outpace everything. But you don’t understand the nature of time and space."
Gortash bared his teeth, frustration burning in his eyes. "Then enlighten me. What secret have you stolen? What trick lets you stand against me?"
Alex took a slow step forward, unshaken. "Time and space are interwoven. You accelerate time for yourself, but you leave space untouched. You make yourself faster, but you remain bound to a single flow of movement, a single perception of existence. I, however—" He raised a hand, fingers curling slightly. "—bend space itself. I don’t need to be faster than you. I can make the distance you travel greater. I can stretch the space between us in an instant, making each step you take longer, each strike you throw reach just short of its mark. You’re running faster than light, Gortash, but the road beneath you is stretching endlessly."
Gortash's breath hitched as realization flickered in his eyes. His movements, which had felt so precise, so fluid, now seemed sluggish. His mind screamed that he was moving at impossible speeds, yet every strike was intercepted, every step forced to take longer than it should.
"You're lying." But there was doubt in his voice.
Alex shook his head. "No. You’ve already felt it. That hesitation, that moment of delay—it wasn’t you slowing down. It was space shifting around you. And now, you realize you were never truly in control."
Gortash’s face twisted with rage. He let out a primal roar and lunged again, but this time, Alex didn’t even raise his sword.
With a flick of his wrist, space stretched. The gap between them widened in an instant, and Gortash's attack fell through empty air. He stumbled, realization dawning on him too late.
Alex stepped forward, his voice calm. "Now, it’s over."
Gortash could do nothing but watch as Alex closed the distance, his blade glinting in the void.
The blade stopped short of Gortash’s throat. He met Alex’s gaze, eyes wide with confusion, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Blood dripped from his wounds, but he ignored the pain, too focused on the impossible situation before him.
Alex's grip on his sword was steady, his expression unreadable. "Come out, Bane," he said, his voice low and resolute. "If you don’t..." His blade pressed just a fraction deeper, drawing a thin line of blood. "I'll do the same thing I did to your friends—Bhaal and Myrkul. I will devour you, and I will make sure you never, ever return."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, Gortash’s body convulsed violently. His eyes rolled back into his skull, his mouth opening in a silent scream. Darkness pulsed from his form, thick and suffocating. The air grew heavy with malice, an oppressive force pressing against the very fabric of reality. When his eyes opened again, they burned with an eerie crimson light, twin suns of pure, unrelenting wrath.
His wounds mended in an instant, flesh knitting together as if they had never been. His tattered armor restored itself, reforging into an imposing blackened plate, adorned with fresh engravings of conquest and suffering. A wicked greatsword materialized beside him, its blade pulsing with crimson and black energy, an extension of the divine malevolence now coursing through him.
A sinister mark ignited on Gortash’s chest, a dark sigil of a palm—Bane’s symbol. The god had finally emerged.
The presence that now occupied Gortash’s form was overwhelming, a force that demanded submission. The shadows around them twisted unnaturally, drawn toward him like supplicants before a tyrant. The sheer weight of his aura pressed against Alex like a storm of iron and fire.
Bane did not rage. He did not bellow. Instead, he smirked, his expression eerily similar to Gortash’s yet filled with something far more sinister.
"You think yourself capable of devouring me?" Bane’s voice was deeper, layered with something ancient and terrible. "I am dominion. I am order. The strong rule, and the weak kneel. This is the truth of existence. You, creature, are an anomaly—a mistake that will be corrected."
His greatsword lifted, the weight of it splitting the air with a hum of absolute destruction. Power radiated from him, a force of sheer control bending reality to his will. The world itself seemed to hold its breath as Alex met the god’s blazing gaze.
The true battle had begun.
Alex’s form ignited with transcendent power, a being woven from the very fabric of creation and destruction. His golden armor radiated with celestial brilliance, its surface shifting like liquid light, infused with the radiance of the heavens. Blazing wings of divine fire unfurled from his back, merging with chaotic tendrils of lightning and dark, shadowy mist—an impossible fusion of forces both holy and abyssal.
His visage was obscured beneath an ornate, angular helm, crowned with a glowing halo of pure cosmic energy. From within, his eyes burned with omnipotence, a fusion of divine wisdom, elemental fury, infernal cunning, and the abyssal void he had mastered. His mere presence bent reality, the air vibrating with the sheer weight of his power.
Four arms extended from his form, each hand cradling a different force of existence. One hand burned with the fury of a dying star, molten fire coiling around his fingers. Another shimmered with the boundless energy of creation, blue lightning dancing across his palm, entwined with miniature celestial spheres. The third radiated an eerie, abyssal darkness, a black void that devoured the very light around it. The final hand pulsed with raw elemental might—earth, air, water, and fire swirling in a constant, ever-shifting dance.
His lower body seemed both corporeal and ethereal, shifting between material form and cosmic energy, flowing like silk woven from the stars. Every step he took left traces of golden luminescence and void-black embers in his wake, as if existence itself struggled to contain him.
The battlefield trembled beneath his presence. Space warped and twisted around him, the fabric of reality bending at the sheer magnitude of the forces he wielded. This was no longer a mere transformation—it was ascension, a being who had conquered divinity, darkness, and the fundamental elements themselves.
Alex had become more than a god, more than a force of destruction or salvation. He was balance incarnate—a cosmic storm, an unrelenting force standing between annihilation and existence itself.
Bane’s grip tightened around his massive greatsword, the jagged blade pulsing with the raw malice of his dominion. His crimson gaze flickered with realization—he had been deceived. Lured into this battlefield, not to claim victory, but to be trapped with something far beyond his reckoning.
The void around them sealed like an iron cage, an unbreakable realm crafted by Alex’s will. There was no retreat, no summoning of mortal armies, no bending the fabric of fate in his favor. For the first time in an eternity, Bane felt something creeping beneath his godly resolve—dread.
A greatsword of pure void and celestial fire materialized at Alex’s side, its massive form humming with the resonance of forgotten power. He reached for it, gripping the hilt with one of his many hands, and as his fingers wrapped around its ethereal surface, the blade ignited in a raging crimson inferno. The light it cast was neither holy nor unholy—it was something else entirely, something unbound by the constraints of gods and mortals alike.
Bane could feel it now, the overwhelming confluence of energies radiating from Alex. The divinity of Shar coursed through him like a black tide, its tendrils entwined with something ancient, something older than the first murder, older than his own essence. It was a hunger, raw and endless, a force that made even the bloodlust of Bhaal seem like a mere ember in comparison.
A chill that had nothing to do with the void settled into Bane’s bones. He had spent eons orchestrating his rise, building empires of tyranny, bending the strong and crushing the weak. He had faced rebellion, war, even death itself—but this was different. This was not a battle of armies, nor a clash of gods upon their pedestals. This was a reckoning.
Then Alex lunged.
The entire realm quaked under the force of his movement. Reality itself seemed to ripple in protest as he closed the distance in an instant, the weight of his presence collapsing time and space around him. His blade met Bane’s with a cataclysmic clash, sending shockwaves tearing through the void. The force of the impact would have sundered mountains, shattered stars, and yet here, in this prison of their own making, it was merely the opening note of a symphony of destruction.
Bane staggered back, his own power buckling against the overwhelming tide. He snarled, rallying the might of conquest, of subjugation, of all the oaths and blood spilled in his name—but for the first time, it was not enough.
Alex did not fight like a god. He did not fight like a mortal. He fought like something else entirely, something that had no need for pantheons or prayers. A being that had surpassed divinity, not by ascending, but by consuming, by evolving beyond the need for such titles.
Bane roared, his sword rising for another strike, but deep within, he knew the truth.
He was no longer the predator.
He was the prey.
Bane roared, his armored form shifting as divine fire surged through his limbs. His sword, wreathed in black and crimson flames, lashed out in a brutal arc. But Alex was already gone, his form phasing through the blow like a specter of death itself. He reappeared behind the god, his blade sinking deep into Bane’s side, splitting through divine flesh and armor alike. The impact sent ripples of force through the void, bending reality around them.
Bane stumbled, his own ichor dripping into the abyss, yet he grinned. “You think yourself my better?” he sneered, his wounds sealing almost instantly. “You wield the power of tyrants, but you are no ruler.”
Alex’s response was another strike—one that cleaved through Bane’s knee, forcing him down. Before the god could retaliate, a dozen tendrils of shadow and light erupted from Alex’s back, each one piercing through Bane’s chest, arms, and shoulders, pinning him in place. The god of conquest struggled against the restraints, his muscles straining with unnatural power, but for the first time in an eternity, he felt something foreign—helplessness.
Alex towered over him now, his form eclipsing all. The power of gods, the might of fallen empires, the rage of the void, and the light of creation—all of it wove through him like a living storm. His golden armor shimmered with the combined energies of celestial, infernal, and elemental forces, while the dark tendrils of Shar's power wove through his limbs, flickering like a living night sky. He was no mere conqueror; he was inevitability itself.
Bane spat blood, his body writhing against the restraints. But there was no escape. The chromatic orb in Alex's chest pulsed, drawing the god’s very essence toward it. Bane let out a guttural laugh, one filled not with fear, but amusement. His burning crimson eyes, once filled with ambition, now held only the grim satisfaction of witnessing a successor.
“So this is how it ends?” Bane’s smirk widened, even as his form began to break apart, his essence unraveling into nothingness. “Fitting. I sought to create the ultimate ruler—one strong enough to crush all opposition. And in the end, I found him.”
His laughter grew hoarse as the last of his being was pulled into Alex’s core. But he did not scream. He did not beg. Instead, as his form turned to dust and divine energy spiraled into the abyss, he spoke one final truth.
“Rule well, tyrant.”
Then he was gone.
The void around Alex trembled as the last remnants of Bane’s divinity settled within him. The chains of the dimension shattered, the battlefield dissolving back into the world from which they had come.
The weight of his victory pressed upon him, the power of the Dead Three fully extinguished. Bhaal, Myrkul, and now Bane—all devoured, their legacies erased, their ambitions swallowed whole by a being who had surpassed even their darkest designs. And yet, the words of Bane lingered in his mind, echoing through the silent expanse of his thoughts.
He exhaled, his eyes glowing with newfound power. The battlefield lay quiet, the very air still with the finality of a god's death.
The final god of the Dead Three had fallen.
And Alex had taken his throne.