Striker was the first to make his move, lunging forward with a wicked slash of his knife, the blade gleaming with divine energy. His attacks were fast, ruthless, aiming to cut Spawn down before he had a chance to counter. But Spawn was ready, his instincts honed through countless battles. His agony axe materialized in his grip, and with a swift motion, he parried Striker's strike, the clash of steel ringing out in the night.
The two warriors engaged in a brutal exchange, their weapons flashing in the dim light as they circled one another. Striker's knife darted and slashed, but every attack was met with the sharp clang of Spawn's axe, which moved with deadly precision. Their fight was fierce, each trying to outmatch the other with speed and skill.
Striker sneered as their blades locked in a deadly stalemate. "You're just another sinner," he spat, pushing against Spawn's strength. "Ain't no divine power or redemption gonna save your sorry ass."
Spawn's eyes narrowed, his muscles straining as he shoved Striker back, breaking the lock. "You have no idea what you're up against," he said coldly, his voice dark and filled with a quiet, simmering rage. His axe whirled through the air, forcing Striker back with each heavy strike. "You think you're better than everyone else, don't you? You think that rope, that divine steel makes you special."
Striker laughed, dodging another swing of the axe, his eyes gleaming with that familiar arrogance. "Damn right I do. I'm the best there is, and I've taken down plenty like you before."
Spawn's grip on his axe tightened, his voice dropping to a dangerous tone. "You don't get it, do you?" He swung again, this time faster, stronger, his movements relentless. Striker was forced to backpedal, barely keeping up with the onslaught. "You're just like everyone else. Just like me. Like all the others."
Striker's grin faltered as Spawn continued, his words cutting deeper than the strikes themselves. "You can talk all you want about being above it all, about being stronger, but you're the same as everyone else down here. Damned. Lost. And no amount of divine power is gonna change that."
Striker's eyes flickered with anger, but he didn't let up, lunging forward once more with his knife. "We'll see about that, demon!" he snarled, but there was something different in his voice now, a hint of frustration.
The clash of weapons resumed, but Spawn was no longer holding back. His axe moved with terrifying speed, and it was clear that he wasn't just fighting with brute strength—he was a soldier, a tactician. Every swing was calculated, every movement precise. Striker, for all his arrogance, was starting to realize that Spawn wasn't like any enemy he'd faced before.
As the melee dragged on, Striker's movements began to lose their finesse, his attacks becoming more erratic. His breathing grew labored, each swing of his knife slower than the last. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he realized something was horribly wrong—Spawn, standing tall before him, didn't even look winded.
Spawn's expression remained cold and composed, his axe still gripped tightly in his hand. The glint of Striker's knife reflected in his eyes, but there was no fear there, only a predatory focus that unnerved the assassin more than any weapon ever could.
Desperation clawed at Striker's insides. His pride, his confidence—all of it began to crumble under the weight of the Hellspawn's relentless calm. With a guttural snarl, Striker charged forward, his knife flashing wildly as he stabbed at Spawn's chest. The blade struck true, piercing Spawn's body multiple times. Striker drove it in again and again, his anger fueling every hit, and with a final push, Spawn fell to the ground, the assassin standing over him.
Panting heavily, Striker stumbled backward, nearly collapsing from exhaustion. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, the adrenaline coursing through him like fire. He grinned, triumphant, believing he had finally done it. "I told you… no one beats me," he muttered through labored breaths, wiping sweat from his brow. "Not even you."
But then, something happened that froze Striker to his core.
Spawn, lying on the ground, slowly began to move. His eyes glowed with a hellish light as he stood back up, his wounds already closing before Striker's eyes. The divine-infused stabs, the injuries that should have been lethal—none of it mattered. Within seconds, Spawn stood tall once more, his body healed as if nothing had happened.
Striker's triumphant grin vanished, replaced by disbelief and growing terror. "No… no way…," he breathed, backing away. "What the hell are you?"
Spawn's gaze locked onto Striker, his voice low and filled with unshakable resolve. "I told you. You don't know what you're up against."
As Spawn took another step forward, the air between him and Striker seemed to thicken with tension. Striker, his breath shallow and his heart racing, instinctively lunged again, his knife flashing toward Spawn's chest. But this time, Spawn was faster, his hand snapping out to catch Striker's wrist in a vice-like grip.
The force of Spawn's hold made Striker wince, but it was the glare in Spawn's eyes that made his blood run cold. It wasn't just anger—it was something far darker, a look that promised suffering.
"You really want to know what you're up against?" Spawn asked, his voice low and dripping with menace.
Before Striker could respond, Spawn reached for his mask. Slowly, deliberately, he removed it, revealing the grotesque sight beneath—rotting, charred flesh, with patches of necroplasm flickering within the decayed remains of his human face. The stench of decay hit Striker like a punch, his confident facade crumbling as he staggered back, eyes wide with shock and horror.
"What the hell—" Striker stammered, his voice faltering. He had seen demons, monsters, and all manner of horrors in Hell, but nothing like this. Nothing that seemed so... wrong.
Spawn wasn't finished. He tightened his grip on Striker's wrist and yanked him closer, pulling the assassin's hand toward his rotting face. "Touch it," Spawn growled, his voice almost a command. Striker struggled, trying to yank his arm free, but Spawn's strength was overwhelming.
"No! Get off me!" Striker shouted, panic creeping into his tone.
But Spawn ignored his protests, forcing Striker's trembling fingers into the putrid, necroplasm-filled flesh of his face. The sensation was sickening—warm, wet, and impossibly wrong. Striker gagged, his body recoiling in disgust, but he couldn't pull away. He was trapped in Spawn's grip, his fingers sinking into the decayed, unnatural flesh.
"You think you're something special?" Spawn hissed, his rotting face inches from Striker's now. "You're nothing. Just like the rest of them. And this," he pressed Striker's hand harder against the necroplasm, "is what you're up against. Something far worse than any Hell you've ever known."
Striker's confidence, his bravado, was shattered. All he could do was stare in horror, realizing for the first time that he had vastly underestimated his opponent.
Spawn's grip on Striker's wrist tightened as he leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper. "You think you're something special? Some big shot? I'm going to make you realize how wrong you are. You're no better than anyone else down here. You're just another waiting to suffer."
As the words left Spawn's lips, the necroplasm around Striker's hand began to pulse, creeping through his skin and into his veins. Striker's breath hitched as his mind was forcefully bent and twisted. His surroundings warped, and suddenly, the faces of the people he had killed—the innocents, the enemies, all of them—appeared before him. They stood in a silent circle, their dead eyes staring into his soul, their expressions filled with anger, fear, and accusation.
"What the hell—!?" Striker gasped, jerking back in terror, but he couldn't escape. The ghosts of his past were all around him, closing in.
Spawn's eyes gleamed with satisfaction at the sight of Striker's fear. "This is what you'll see," Spawn said, his voice dark and unforgiving. "Every waking moment for the next month. Every face you tried to forget, every life you took, they'll haunt you. And when you can't take it anymore, when you're broken... you tell everyone who did this to you. Tell them the name. Spawn."
Striker's breathing quickened, his eyes darting wildly as the dead seemed to reach for him, their cold, spectral hands pulling him toward a hell of his own making. "No... NO!" he shouted, shaking his head violently. "You can't leave me like this! Kill me! Just kill me!"
Spawn's expression was cold, unmoved by the imp's pleas. With a quick, brutal twist, he snapped Striker's wrist, a sickening crack echoing in the air. Striker collapsed to the ground, clutching his shattered wrist and groaning in agony, tears of pain and horror streaking down his face.
As Spawn slid his mask back over his scarred visage, he loomed over Striker's crumpled form. "You're lucky I don't make it a year," he said, his voice low and final. Without another word, Spawn turned, leaving the imp writhing in his madness, haunted by the faces of his past that would never let him rest.
Striker's cries of desperation faded as Spawn disappeared into the shadows, a dark reminder of the price of underestimating Hell's deadliest warrior.
"You fucking bastard! You can't leave me like this!"
Striker's laugh echoed off the rooftop, a laugh that wasn't born of joy but of sheer madness. It was jagged, broken, the laugh of a man losing his grip on reality. As he stumbled to his feet, clutching his broken wrist, the faces of the dead still surrounded him, hovering like phantoms in the air.
Each step he took away from the roof, away from the site of his defeat, brought no escape from Spawn's curse. Their faces followed him. The people he had killed—soldiers, innocents, anyone who had ever crossed his path—were there with him. Their eyes bore into his soul, accusing, silent, but their presence screamed louder than words.
He heard their whispers, like the wind cutting through his mind. Their wounds, the bloody reminders of how they died at his hands, were ever-present. They whispered his name, reminding him of his sins, of the blood on his hands.
Striker groaned in frustration, shaking his head violently as if he could make them disappear. But nothing worked. They stayed. They whispered. They stared. And they accused him.
The madness clawed at his mind with every passing second. The weight of the souls he had claimed crushed him, and it was too much to bear. Striker's steps became more erratic as he stumbled down the street, grasping at his head in desperation, hoping to outrun the terror that had now become his reality. But no matter where he went, the faces remained, an unending nightmare that would follow him until he broke completely.
Spawn's voice rang in his mind like a death sentence, and Striker knew there was no escaping it. His mind was a prison now, and the faces of his victims were the chains that would bind him in torment.
For the first time in his life, Striker felt powerless, truly haunted by his own actions.