The Cycle, Unbroken

[Okor]

Death had no hold over this realm.

Legends never died, denied the immortality of memory as they lived life eternal, damned to fight and kill until there was nothing left but immortal demi-gods bleeding each other dry atop the dead and dying. It was a mockery of entropy, Omni’s whims elevating mere mortals above the muck all men were fated to be born in, to live in, to die in.

It was a situation that much of the Omniverse was comfortable with; Immortality, infinite power, the wisdom of a thousand worlds to reap. Unfortunately for its inhabitants, there was one who felt differently.

Cursed, corrupted claws tore through the fabric of reality, divine flesh and bone warped and twisted towards a darker purpose. Ancient armour followed, verdigris and signs of violence adorning its surface in place of battle honours and purity seals. A horn crested the widening gap in realspace, followed by a crimson eye, its baleful gaze looking upon the blank slate of the Nexus, and finding it wanting. Pauldrons were pulled forward next, decorated with the sigils of his plague-riddled patron, and the heraldry of his undying, unliving legion.

He rose, resplendent in rot and ruin, from the nothingness, the tainted titan standing tall as the gangrenous grey matter within his malformed skull did its work.

He had saved Camelot from Nebula’s tender mercies, and fulfilled his obligations towards Hiro, satisfied his lust for battle, and spread his glory throughout another ‘verse.

He balled his bare hand into a fist, twisted talons digging into the leathery flesh of his palm, beads of translucent vitae welling up from within.

It wasn’t enough. He had done little but uphold the status quo, prevented one more faction from enacting their mad whims over the Omniverse at large. The infinite wheels lying under the skein of reality still turned, the maddened clockwork of the omniverse still ticking, an eternal dance of fates and follies doomed to torment man ‘til The Smiling One’s grin fell.

The time had come to stop dancing to his tune. He had drifted from battlefield to battlefield, shedding his blood in the name of others, rather than himself, or his God.

The blessed binaric spirit of his armour crawled across his vision, whispering warped words into his ears.

Nealaphh had found a way out. The tale was scribed across the dataverse, speculation reigning supreme; the Lord of The Institute had freed himself from the Underverse, made his way to the void, and never returned. Whether he had been annihilated by Omni for his arrogance or had broken free was unclear.

But it changed little. Tearen or Nealpahh, they had freed him from restrictions, cast of the veils and at last acknowledged his abilities. Free reign to spread his faith, to destabilize the tentative balance of power.

He smiled, beneath his rust-coated helmet. The time had come at last.

He extended a claw, its tainted tip slowly shredding through reality, a rift blossoming before him, luminescent lights and shimmering stars staring back at him from the Astral Realm. He stepped forward, black corruption left behind him with every step, as his very presence ate away at the world of dreams.