The drums grew louder and louder, signaling the approach of the Executioner. The Antithetical's heart pounded in his chest as he paced back and forth in his cell, his mind racing with thoughts of escape and rebellion. Suddenly, a guttural growling voice in his head shouted "ĉhœb'ǎ!" repeatedly, growing louder and louder. The Antithetical was confused and frightened by the voice, unsure of what it meant or where it was coming from. Suddenly, the door to his cell burst open, and the Executioner stood before him. The Warden's eyes were cold and emotionless, and the Antithetical could see the determination in his gaze. He knew that this was it, his time had come. The Warden gestured for him to stand up. The Antithetical felt a sense of dread as he was led out of the cell and into the winding tunnels of the mine. He could hear the drums getting louder and louder, the signal that the execution was about to begin. The Executioner was standing in front of him, his shadow swallowing him, holding an ornate sword tightly in both of his hands. The Executioner began to speak, but the Antithetical could barely hear him over the drumming. Abruptly, the drums stopped beating, and in one fell swoop, the mine went from deafening to deadly quiet.
His mind was overloaded and shortly before the Executioner ended his Sermon that he began after the drums stopped hammering, finally, he understood ĉhœb'ǎ. Insight granted, he felt the meaning and the feeling. Suddenly, something stirred within the Antithetical. A powerful force seemed to well up from deep within him, surging through his body like a raging inferno. He could feel the brand on his forehead burning with intensity, and his eyes took on a fiery emerald hue. It was as if a dragon had awakened within him, unleashing its fury upon the world. With a roar of defiance, the Antithetical broke free from his shackles and unleashed his fury upon the Executioner. The Antithetical lunged forward.
Despite his efforts, the Executioner mass proved too great, and he was easily pushed away. With a look of disgust and anger, the Executioner swung his sword, but the Antithetical was quick to duck and avoid the attack. The sword, designed for ritualistic use rather than combat, proved ineffective in the narrow confines of the cell. In a desperate attempt, he swung the sword with all his might, striking the iron bars of the door instead of flesh. The sword shattered into pieces, sending splinters flying into the hand and face of the Executioner and into the naked body of the Antithetical. Blood and flesh ripped apart as the Antithetical tore a piece out of his abdomen, grabbing it with might and nearly severing his fingers with it. He seized the opportunity to inflict a fatal wound on the Executioner, cutting his throat and causing him to fall to the ground in a lifeless heap. While he just stood there for a brief amount of time, his conscious froze, but his soul felt ablaze. Suddenly he started saying, with a rumbling voice:
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> Dear Mother, my plea
> Is for your voice to sing me to slumber,
> To shield my mind from this gory ensemble's thunder.
> Dear Father, my plea
> Is for your hand to hold once more
> My anguish will persist till you both come back to me.
> Dear God, cyclicity
> A never-ending blood-soaked symphony
> Of utmost infamy
> Dear God, cyclicity
> I will not bend
> but will this come to an end?