The man who once was riteous sat on the throne of damnation. Hands dripping with the blood of his only kin, the right one grasping a donkey jawbone, shaking ever so slightly with raw power. He felt powerful, free, numb. For the first time in his life, he could let go of the guilt that mercilessly ate away at his soul. Of course that soul is gone. That bright, loving, guilt ridden soul was destroyed the moment the man's last breath left his mouth. What took its place is a twisted, evil darkness that knows no mercy. It was this new abyss in the man's chest that allowed him to slaughter millions. It was what allowed him to destroy the only two people he had left. It was this emptiness that allowed the riteous man to sit on the throne of hell, his brother's bloodied corpse under his foot, and a sardonic grin on his face. Of course this thing isn't the riteous man anymore. No, he died long ago.