"I've done... unbelievable things... in the name of a faith that was never my own."
He could see his flesh ignite right infront of him, yet he could feel no pain. There were no screams as he staggered across the unforgiving surface of a planet where the boldest of life dared not live upon the surface. Nothing could survive the sheer, brutal force of the blazing sun which heated the planet to a toasty mark somewhere above 300 degrees. And at night? It neared absolute zero.
Was it fate that had brought him here aboard Commander Vaako's frigate? Or was it destiny? They had left Helion Prime in favour of tracking Riddick to this incarnation of hell to find him and kill him for the Lord Marshal. For such a powerful man who commanded an army with as unwavering loyalty as the Lord Marshal, it was odd to see him so bent out of shape about this one breeder. This one convict. But this was no ordinary man. And the quasi-dead had confirmed it. Furyan. Riddick was no ordinary breeder – he was a Furyan – one of the very members of the warrior race that the Lord Marshal had tried to wipe out early in his additions to the Campaign.
It was as the prophesy foretold. The Lord Marshal would be struck down by a Furyan. He had seen the awesome display that this alpha Furyan had displayed today upon the surface of this Hell. Riddick had taken out 20 of Commander Vaako's men with just one furious blast.
It was then that Riddick had confirmed his belief when he had first heard the quasi-dead mutter the word 'Furyan.' Riddick would be the one to fulfill the prophesy. For the first time since his conversion he actually felt hope swell up in his chest. Hope. His Necromonger side shouted 'no!,' the Faith must not fall into the hands of this man. But his Furyan side knew that the Universe would be saved.
He had done so many unbelievable things in the name of a faith he had been converted into. They took away his pain all right, but left him devoid of life. He had become saint-like, rising to the role of the Purifier. He was the one who would try to initially convince the defeated people of conquered planets to convert. Or die.
He had served the Lord Marshal with unwavering loyalty, without doubt. But for too long he had tried to embrace something that simply was not his, nor would it ever be. These last few days had been a true test of his character and innermost being. And he had finally truly seen who he was, and what he had to do. The Necromonger way wasn't his own. He had done so much in the name of a cause that he truly didn't believe in.
There would be no Underverse for him. There would be no life after death. No crossing over the Threshold.
Looking ahead he simply smiled a serene, peaceful smile. Nothing else mattered now as he walked out into that superheated deathtrap. He had made his decisions and determined it was time to purify himself, once and for all. It was a small gesture in the grand scheme of things, but for a man who once served as the right hand man of a Lord Marshal bent on cleansing the universe, he was finally free of his own personal hell.
Reaching up, he could almost feel the superheated air as it rushed around him, incinerating his flesh, turning his hand and the rest of his body into a pile of ash.
His only regret was that he couldn't feel his demise.