Pain. The universal constant. A tool honed by the wicked to break the meek, shatter their spirits, and chain their wills. A weapon, sharp and unyielding, wielded to castigate, to subjugate. And yet, when the righteous rise, when the broken take up arms against the darkness, what weapon remains at their disposal? Pain.
Moses finally understood. Pain was the currency of the world, a debt paid in blood and bone. Good or evil, it claimed its due. He knelt in the rain-soaked crossroads, his knees sinking into the cold muck, clutching the lifeless weight of a girl he'd failed to save. Her blood, warm just minutes ago, seeped through his fingers, pooling with the water streaking his face. Not just rain, not completely. She stared at him, eyes milky and vacant, as if accusing him even in death. He didn't even know her name.
Beside him, his best friend choked and sputtered, fighting for breath as life spilled from him in heaving gasps. Moses could do nothing. Not for him. Not for the girl. Not for anyone.
This was it. Drenched in mire and blood, this moment was the culmination of his life. Every choice, every act of violence committed in the name of coin or survival, every life taken, had carved this path. This was where it had always led: to failure. To ruin.
Beyond the abyssal figure looming before him, through the swirling veil of the fading portal, he saw nothing but the echo of his daughter's mocking smile as she vanished into the vortex. She was gone, and the hollow ache in his chest was a far deeper wound than any blade had ever inflicted.
The demon stepped forward, slow and deliberate, cloven hooves splashing in the mud. Its breath came in hissing snarls, clouds of fetid steam curling from its maw. Matted fur clung to a muscled frame, slick with water and streaked with grime. In its taloned hand, it clutched a greatsword, Moses' sword. A weapon that had sung a dirge for dozens, perhaps hundreds. The steel gleamed in the dim light, its edge still sharp enough to carve a path through flesh and bone.
It was fitting he would die by the same weapon he had used to deliver so much death. Justice had caught up to him, not in the form of a noble paladin or vengeful god, but as a foul abomination. A reflection of all he had wrought.
The creature halted a pace away, tilting its head as if studying him, savoring the inevitability. Moses tightened his grip on the girl's body, his knuckles pale against the crimson stain of her blood. His breath hitched as he whispered, not to the abyssal scourge, but to the girl, to the friend bleeding out beside him, to the shadows of his wife and daughters that haunted his mind.
"I've been such a fool."
The words were lost in the storm as his sword was raised.
It loomed over him, a grotesque mockery of flesh and power, its jagged silhouette outlined by the last dying flicker of the vortex behind it. When Moses dared to meet its eyes, pits of endless black rimmed by flickering embers, he saw no divine wrath or alien malice. He saw himself—the monster he had become, the animal he had always been, the killer he had justified, excused, and buried beneath years of hollow reasoning.
The reflection tore at him. It bared his soul, raw and unguarded, forcing him to confront truths he had spent decades running from. All the things he had left unsaid to Maritza hung heavy in the storm: the apologies he'd never utter, the forgiveness he would never have a chance to beg for. He failed her, not only in the church but in every moment preceding it. And what of her sister? Her mother? Would they think he'd run away, too much of a coward to face the consequences of the life he'd built? Or would they assume he had died? A failure whose story wasn't worth mourning. Would they care?
He wouldn't blame them if they didn't.
The storm pounded harder, drowning the road in a sea of misery, and within its rhythm, Moses heard the whispers of a hundred voices. The faces followed, a tidal wave of the dead surging through his mind: fathers clutching their children, sons throwing themselves in vain against his blade, husbands shielding their wives, mothers cradling their daughters. Lovers. Friends.
Every life he had ended. Every soul he had stolen in the name of power, loyalty, or coin. They were all waiting for him. Faces pale and bloodied, eyes hollow and accusing, lips curled in silent reprisal. Their unspoken condemnation settled on his shoulders, heavier than any armor he had ever worn.
This was justice. This was the reckoning he knew would come, not in a heroic battle or noble duel, but in the mud, the rain, and the bitter understanding that no life of bloodshed could ever end cleanly.
The beast took another step, closer now. Moses squeezed the girl in his arms, her body limp and cold. Her lifeless gaze bore through him, her innocence another accusation he couldn't answer.
Moses braced himself for the end, shutting his eyes tight against the storm, the girl cradled against his chest as if he could somehow protect her now, in death, from the horrors he failed to shield her from in life. Or perhaps it was the other way around; maybe he was the one seeking protection, hiding behind the fragile shell of her lifeless body to delay the coming judgment.
But it never came.
There was no pain, no cold sting of steel or fiery plunge into the abyss. Instead, there was warmth. It began as a flicker, then surged. Burning through the chill, piercing his closed eyelids with blinding intensity. The kind of warmth that didn't belong in a place like this. Too pure. Too searing. As though the very heavens had opened.
He opened his eyes.
Standing before him was a man, or something resembling one. He was almost naked, his body a canvas of blood and wounds, lacerations cutting deep into muscle and sinew. Tattered bandages hung loose from his mangled frame, swaying in the wind. Yet, for all his brokenness, there was an undeniable power to him, a presence that made Moses' breath catch.
The hulking, monstrous demon that had moments ago been poised to end him was on its knees. Its grotesque head was bowed, pressed against the figure's outstretched hand. From that hand radiated a light so incomprehensibly pure it scorched the beast's flesh and bone with a sickening sizzle. The creature let out a guttural, agonized roar but didn't resist. It couldn't.
The light flared one last time as the brute collapsed, its charred remains steaming.
The man lowered his hand and turned to face Moses. His dark, ancient eyes bore into him with an intensity that made Moses feel as though every sin he had ever committed was laid bare.
"I've been waiting for you a long time now, Moses," the man said, his voice deep and steady. "We have a palace to build."