“Was that the mortal sin you named,
That earned your wrath’s relentless touch?
For I was only a man —
A man who knew too much.”
The age is dying. The thrones of kings lie cold, their crowns scattered like ash in the wind. In the shadows between worlds, the Reaper walks — last of his kind, chosen by no god, sworn to no master. His blade burns with the promise of endings, his path carved through the chaos of a collapsing age.
But prophecy is a double-edged weapon. To the faithful, he is salvation. To the guilty, he is vengeance. To the rest, he is a shadow that cannot be outrun. The Reaper’s purpose is clear — to cleanse the rot that festers in the heart of creation — but his resolve is tested by the one truth he cannot sever: that the hand which wields the sword must one day answer for the blood it spills.
As the final hour draws near, allies will fall, empires will burn, and the skies will open to reveal the truth that has been hidden since the first dawn. The Reaper’s war is not for glory, nor for redemption. It is for the quiet, terrible peace that comes only after the last flame has died.
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