There was no reason to be afraid anymore, not that he was in the first place. He'd bested Diablo, hell all the seven evils if you wanted to get technical, and still it wasn't enough. There was still a gaping hole inside his chest that no amount of gold or wine or women would satisfy, he felt that something was lacking.

Wasn't until he'd become an aspect of death that he'd realized what was lacking. Power, that's what he missed, the never-ending power of the Nephalem was a start, but still it wasn't enough. When he'd thrusted his sword into Malthael's chest and absorbed his deathly power, that's when he'd become filled. When he'd become whole. There was nothing like it, every second he became more powerful as people died across all of sanctuary, natural deaths but still, with the right catalyst maybe he could become more powerful than any other being in creation.

But of course it had come with its own problems, when he'd killed Malthael, he'd been overcome with sudden pain, clutching his head he'd screamed as his face slowly vanished, disappearing from trace as a ghostly hood had materialized from nothing over the empty space where his head had been. His armor was changing as well, new pauldrons were appearing and from them, wispy wings that resembled Malthaels deathly ones. When it had finished, Tyrael had been speechless at the sight in front of him, at the Nephalem, who had conquered death itself to become the newest aspect in the angiris council. The newest angel.

The Angel of Death.