Men screamed and cried as they charged toward the seemingly endless horde of enemies, their weapons drawn and their hearts steeled in grim anticipation of death. Before them stood not other men bearing rival banners, but monsters torn from the nightmares they had buried since childhood, creatures so grotesque that even the bravest among them shuddered deep within.
Skeletal beings wielded jagged weapons forged from bone, their hollow eye sockets locked onto the terrified warriors with a gaze colder than any winter. Their jaws clattered as if in mockery, their limbs moved with unnatural stiffness, and yet they advanced with deadly precision. Behind them stumbled rotting corpses, their flesh in various states of decay, mouths gaping and limbs hanging loose like discarded puppets. Festering wounds revealed the sickly green and purple shades of advanced decomposition, while their eyes rolled wildly, devoid of life and purpose. Above this grotesque legion floated intangible spirits, translucent and distorted, their forms shifting as they moved through the air, untethered by gravity. Their wails carried on the wind, a haunting chorus that chilled the soul.
These were not living creatures. These were abominations, horrors that had earned the name of the undead. The brave men now sprinting into battle understood this with painful clarity. They ran not for glory but for survival, for the faint glimmer of hope that by winning this fight, they could end the nightmare that had consumed their world. This was to be the final battle. They would either emerge victorious or fall and join the ranks of their grotesque enemies. As the two forces collided, volleys of arrows and eruptions of magic tore through the air. The battlefield lit up with deadly brilliance, and the earth itself trembled beneath the weight of the clash.
Towering behind the monstrous horde stood a colossal structure that stretched high into the sky, its twisted form looming over the landscape like a grim sentinel. This towering monument had been constructed from the bones of countless victims, its frame macabre and vile, an abominable feat only possible through unimaginable slaughter. Each inch of its towering facade bore the marks of pain, suffering, and loss. From its highest spire, a terrible beast emerged, its massive wings unfurling as it roared into the sky. The roar shook the heavens, a guttural, violent sound that made weaker men falter, their knees buckling in instinctive fear.
As the beast took to the air, the battle below intensified. The undead pressed forward with relentless energy. They knew no fear, no hesitation, no mercy. Wave after wave crashed into the human soldiers, pushing them back step by step. The air was thick with the scent of blood and decay. The ground was stained with crimson and littered with broken weapons and dismembered limbs. Morale among the living faltered. The will to fight dwindled as hope seemed to vanish. Despair crept into their hearts like a suffocating fog.
Just as it seemed the tide would drown them, a thunderous voice rang out from the front lines. A defiant, booming cry that sliced through the despair.
"Fight on, my friends. Today we make history. Today we exterminate the dead!"
At the center of the human formation stood a titan of a man, wielding a tower shield the size of a small wall. With each step, he used it to batter aside the skeletal warriors, sending them flying through the air like twigs in a storm. He was enormous, towering over even the tallest soldiers, at least nine feet in height. His skin was a deep shade of black, his muscles rippling beneath heavy armor with every motion. This was no ordinary man. He was one of the eleven chosen heroes, champions whose names were etched into legend. This one was known as Behemoth. As he smashed his way forward, the men behind him felt their courage begin to return.
Above the battlefield, another figure made his presence known. Riding a blazing ball of fire, a wiry man with a crooked grin hurled himself into the fray. The fireball shot toward a tightly clustered group of undead, trailing waves of heat in its wake. It struck the ground with explosive force, incinerating hundreds of zombies in a flash of scorching brilliance. The man landed gracefully amidst the smoke, his robes billowing around him as he summoned another spell. An orb glowed in his hands, pulsing with magical energy.
This was another of the eleven heroes. He was known far and wide as Phoenix. His olive-toned skin and slim, athletic build gave him a deceptive appearance, but his mastery over fire was unmatched. With a sharp motion, he unleashed a wall of searing flame that swept across the battlefield, turning airborne undead to ash.
Still, the undead refused to retreat. For every one destroyed, another seemed to rise. Corpses of the recently slain began to stir, pulled back to unholy life. The cycle of death and rebirth fueled the endless tide. Yet the heroes held their ground. Each fought with unmatched power and resolve.
An archer stood atop a ridge, loosing arrows with supernatural accuracy, every shot finding its mark. His hands moved so quickly they were nearly a blur, releasing a volley of projectiles that struck like a relentless rain. A martial artist danced through the chaos below, her every movement a display of fluid grace and lethal power. She weaved between enemies, landing blows that shattered bone and crushed skulls. A swordsman, his blade gleaming with a strange aura, cleaved through foes with ease. Armor offered no protection, and even the strongest undead fell before his strikes. The soldiers witnessing these feats stared in disbelief, unable to comprehend how one person could wield such strength.
With their faith renewed, the men surged forward. Hope returned to the battlefield, blazing like a wildfire. They screamed battle cries, their voices louder than fear, and drove into the enemy lines with newfound energy.
In the skies above, another warrior appeared. He rode atop a serpent with dozens of feathered wings, his silhouette striking against the smoky horizon. A long lance was gripped firmly in his hand, and behind him soared a host of magical beasts, each snarling and clawing at the air. His advance shattered enemy formations, clearing a path below. That opening was all another hero needed.
Laughter rang across the battlefield as a man darted between the confused undead. Twin daggers gleamed in his hands, each strike swift and precise. He danced through the ranks of monsters, leaving corpses in his wake. His presence brought momentum, pushing the undead back.
For a moment, the living had the upper hand. The undead faltered, their advance slowed. But any hope of victory was short-lived.
The colossal beast that had taken flight earlier now descended. Its massive body crashed into the battlefield with enough force to split the earth. Cracks spread from the point of impact, and shockwaves rippled outward, knocking soldiers off their feet. The battle had entered its most desperate phase.
A monstrous roar shattered the air as an enormous undead dragon opened its rotting jaws. It loomed above the battlefield, a towering horror of bone, scale, and necrotic flesh. From the depths of its maw, a torrent of green flame surged forward like a tidal wave of death. The front lines of soldiers stood frozen in horror, their courage faltering in the face of such a cataclysmic force.
Just as the wall of fire threatened to incinerate them, a voice rang out. It was not the voice of a warrior or a general, but of a woman, serene, melodic, and imbued with unshakable authority.
"Fear not, children of the Almighty. You are blessed here and now to win this day. Feel the presence of the true God banish these foul aberrations."
As her words spread across the battlefield like a divine hymn, an invisible power enveloped the soldiers. The wounded found their injuries knitting back together. Their limbs regained strength. Color returned to pale and hopeless faces. At the same time, a radiant barrier of pure light shimmered into existence in front of the flames, intercepting the dragon's breath in a brilliant collision. For a moment, the inferno was halted entirely, and then the barrier shattered in a cascade of gleaming shards.
Standing at the heart of this miracle was a woman cloaked in an ornate robe of rich silvers and shimmering blues. A beautiful scepter glowed in her hand, and though her porcelain mask concealed her face, her regal presence commanded awe. Soldiers fell silent around her, their gazes drawn to her as if by divine gravity. Her every movement radiated calm, faith, and commanding power.
Beside her stood another woman, somehow even more striking. Her long, flowing hair danced in the magical breeze, and a levitating spellbook hovered at her side, its pages flipping rapidly as if alive. Her expression was cold and calculating. She cast a glance toward the dragon, eyes narrowed in disdain.
"You are a poor excuse for a dragon," she said quietly. Her voice was soft, but it carried a terrifying finality. She raised her hand, and in an instant, the massive creature froze in midair. Its body stiffened, locked in place, as if it had been sealed in a prison of absolute stillness. The great undead beast crashed to the earth, motionless.
These two women were no ordinary sorceresses. They were heroes, among the legendary eleven who led humanity's final resistance. The first was known as the Wyrm, a priestess of divine power. The second, known as the Archelon, wielded magic so precise and cold that she could bring titans to their knees with a glance. Their arrival turned the tide of the battle, neutralizing a force that could have ended thousands of lives in a single moment.
Farther back from the frontline, cloaked in black and hidden in shadow, another figure stepped forward. A hood covered his face, and a long cloak obscured the rest of his form. With a single motion of his fingers, glowing magical circles formed on the blood-soaked ground. From within them emerged nightmarish creatures. Their bodies defied logic, with uneven numbers of arms, legs, eyes, and mouths. Some had no discernible front or back. Others pulsed and twitched like malformed muscle.
Many of the nearby soldiers instinctively recoiled in fear. These beings looked more like abominations than allies. But they were not undead. They were summons, conjured by yet another of the eleven heroes, the one known only as the Eldritch.
The monstrous summons charged into the fray with reckless abandon. Their shrieks and howls caused undead creatures to flinch and falter. They tore through enemies with unnatural strength, granting the weary human soldiers a precious opportunity to regroup. Supported by these summoned horrors and the efforts of their heroes, the army pushed onward, step by step, toward the towering ivory spire in the distance.
Phoenix, still crackling with residual flames from his last spell, flew toward Behemoth, who remained the tip of the human spear. Behemoth was tireless, a juggernaut who shattered enemy lines with each movement.
"Is the plan still a go?" Phoenix asked, glancing nervously to either side. "This is our only cha—"
"Are you an idiot?" Behemoth snapped, his voice a furious whisper. "Do not speak of it here. Wait for the signal."
As Behemoth scolded him, a gigantic stone golem lurched toward them. It raised a foot to crush them both, but Behemoth reacted instantly. He drove his shoulder into the creature's leg with a force so powerful that the ground cracked beneath them. The golem toppled, crashing into the earth with a sound like thunder.
Phoenix's jaw tightened at the insult, but he held his tongue. He spun in place and released a devastating burst of fire that engulfed the fallen golem, reducing it to rubble. "This had better work," he muttered darkly, before darting off into the chaos.
Behemoth gritted his teeth and said nothing. There was no time for argument. The ground rumbled as the great tower in the distance began to tremble. Then, with an explosion of stone and black light, two figures emerged from its summit.
Every soldier on the field turned their gaze skyward. Even the undead seemed to pause, as if compelled by the sheer magnitude of the power now present. These were not just heroes or monsters. These were gods of battle.
"You ignorant human," came a voice that echoed across the sky. It was cold, precise, and filled with a loathing deeper than death. "You do not understand the futility of your resistance. The result shall remains unchanged. Surrender and embrace the eternity I offer."
The speaker was tall and unnervingly thin. His flesh barely clung to his bones. His robe shimmered like midnight, speckled with glimmers like distant stars. In his hand, he gripped a staff crowned with a black gemstone held in a skeletal clasp. He radiated ancient authority, the aura of a king who had ruled not for decades or centuries, but for endless ages.
Opposing him was a man so striking, he seemed a vision sculpted by gods. His hair was a shimmering silver, the color of diamonds, and his eyes glowed with the same ethereal brilliance. Muscles rippled beneath his jet-black armor, which shimmered with otherworldly energy. In his hand, a weapon of light had taken the shape of a sword. As he charged forward, it shifted, growing into a radiant spear designed to pierce through anything in existence.
"Enough of your delusions," the man declared, his voice unwavering. "After I destroy you, this world will be free from this nightmare."
"You arrogant rub. Fear not. I shall make your death swift. Your corpse, however, will serve me well," declared the sovereign of this unholy dominion. The ruler of the Labyrinth, the one who commanded all within it, met the oncoming spear with a calculated movement of his staff. The two clashed in the air, the force of their meeting sending a powerful shockwave through the surroundings. With a flick of his skeletal wrist, the king cast a spell. Dozens of razor-sharp bone shards emerged from the air around him, before flying towards their master's enemy.
The Diamond Dragon, hero of the people and bearer of legends, would not allow such a barrage to go unanswered. In response, his weapon shifted, changing its shape to form a luminous bow. In the blink of an eye, he released a volley of radiant arrows, each forged from pure light. They collided midair with the bone projectiles, neutralizing every one. Without pause, he released a singular, powerful arrow, this one directed squarely at the master of the Labyrinth.
The dark ruler sneered. With another gesture, a wall of bone surged up in front of him, absorbing the impact of the arrow. He then dove toward the rooftop of the towering fortress, his expression twisting with frustration. Without wasting a second, he activated one of his most powerful cards. Five magical circles ignited into being around him, and from their centers emerged five undead creatures. Each was unique, and each radiated immense power. These were not mindless minions but elite guardians, much stronger that the army fighting below.
"It makes sense that a creature like you would have no honor," the Diamond Dragon said coldly as he descended through the air. "Luckily for me, neither do I."
With those words, he called upon one of his own hidden strengths. A burst of energy surged through him, magnifying his attributes in a flash of brilliance. His weapon morphed again, this time becoming a halberd. With one clean motion, he cleaved through the first undead, slicing its body clean in two. In the same breath, his weapon shrank down into a dagger. With this new form, he lunged at the next enemy, stabbing it directly through the skull, ending it instantly.
One by one, the Diamond Dragon struck with deadly precision. Each transformation of his weapon was seamless, as if the weapon responded directly to his will. With each kill, the labyrinth's ruler grew more furious.
"Buy me time," the dark monarch ordered one of his final undead guards. The creature lunged forward as the ruler stepped back, preparing a spell so powerful that it could bring this battle to a decisive end.
Sensing the danger, the hero moved to intercept, but the last undead delayed him just long enough. Those few seconds were all the dark ruler needed.
Ascending into the air, the necromancer began his ritual. The air around him flickered and cracked with energy. The sky itself seemed to dim as magical pressure flooded the battlefield. Then, with a horrifying crackle, the conjured spell took shape. A colossal skull, dozens of meters wide and even taller, hovered above the battlefield. It pulsed with energy that made even the distant soldiers gasp in horror. From its gaping maw spilled both searing flames and frigid air, a paradox of heat and cold.
The necromancer's cackling echoed above the battlefield.
"I am not done yet!" he roared. His laughter was filled with madness. As the skull crackled with lighting, brightening up the sky.
The Diamond Dragon realized at once that meeting the spell head-on would mean certain death. He moved to evade, but the necromancer adjusted his aim. The spell was not for the hero. It was for the army below.
"You fought well against my guards," he shouted, "but let us see how you fare when I erase your army. Let their corpses rise and overwhelm you!"
The monstrous spell surged downward, plummeting toward the human soldiers. On the ground, the troops looked up. Some froze. Others wept. A few screamed. But all understood. Their fate was sealed.
A few tried to run. Others clung to their comrades. But it would not matter. The blast would consume them all. This attack was more than a spell. It was annihilation.
High above, the Diamond Dragon stared at the descending doom. His hatred for the necromancer boiled within him. He could kill the dark ruler now, while he was unguarded. It would be a decisive blow. But if he took that chance, the army would die.
Gritting his teeth, the hero turned his gaze from the vulnerable necromancer to the falling spell. His choice was made.
He plunged downward at incredible speed. The air itself screamed as he descended. Shockwaves trailed in his wake. He caught up to the falling spell. He passed it.
Then he stopped, hanging in the air just above the army. His weapon transformed once again, now taking the form of a glowing scepter. Holding it aloft, he summoned an enormous barrier of divine magic. It spread outward like a dome, wide enough to encompass the blast zone.
A moment later, the spell hit.
A deafening explosion erupted. The sound was like the earth tearing open. Light, fire, ice, and energy slammed into the barrier. The ground shook. The sky lit up.
"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!"
The force of the explosion echoed across the land. Smoke, ash, and debris clouded the air. Visibility vanished.
Above, the necromancer looked down, eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction.
"I told you the result would remain unchanged," he whispered. He prepared to begin the rebuilding of his fortress and resurrection of his army. But before he could act, he felt something. A force. A presence. A power.
From within the sea of smoke, a figure rose.
The Diamond Dragon emerged, his body battered beyond recognition. Half his frame was scorched and blistered. The other half was covered in frostbite and bleeding wounds. His once-radiant armor was cracked and smoldering. Yet he flew upward, eyes blazing with fury.
"You should be dead," the necromancer stammered, his voice faltering.
But the hero said nothing. He flew straight at his foe with blinding speed. Before the necromancer could react, he was struck by a powerful punch to the chest, sending him hurtling upward. The hero seized his leg and slammed him downward with bone-shattering force.
Before the necromancer could recover, the Diamond Dragon's weapon became a massive hammer. With a single brutal swing, he struck the necromancer once more, launching him even higher into the darkened sky.
As he flew through the air, the necromancer cursed himself for being deceived. He had assumed this human was like all the others, bound by emotion, weighed down by sentiment and weakness. But he had been wrong. Completely and utterly wrong. He could see it now, reflected in those eyes. The light was gone. They shone with nothing at all, hollow and empty, no different from his own lifeless gaze. This man was no ordinary human. He was a monster. A monster just like him.
The necromancer tried to slow his momentum, to retaliate, to gather himself for a counterattack. He imagined the hero's body had to be on the verge of collapse, perhaps a single breath away from death. Yet, in that moment, something primal stirred within him, an instinctual fear he had not felt before. His head turned of its own accord, and what he saw filled him with dread.
The monster was behind him, holding a glowing spear, eyes brimming with relentless fury. Without hesitation, the weapon pierced through the necromancer's body, driving deep into his chest. The force of the impact propelled them both downward, straight from the summit of the ivory tower.
The spear remained lodged in the necromancer like a nail, and the Diamond Dragon pressed downward, pushing them together toward the heart of the fortress. In desperation, the necromancer cried out.
"Wait. You will kill us both!"
His voice cracked with panic, trying to appeal to something, anything, that might save him.
"I am fine with that," the Diamond Dragon replied, calm and unyielding.
Together, they crashed through the tower's upper walls, sending masonry flying. The entire top half of the structure buckled, collapsing in a deafening roar of destruction. The tower tipped and fell away from the battlefield, crumbling under its own weight.
Down below, the surviving army watched in stunned silence. Their hero had saved them from annihilation and now, before their very eyes, had toppled the symbol of their greatest enemy. For a moment, all was still.
Then came the cries.
"Dragon!" The voice belonged to the normally composed and stoic Archelon. Her composure broke as she ran toward the wreckage. Around her, the defenders stood frozen, their weapons lowered. The undead, no longer commanded, stood idle like broken puppets, their strings severed.
The rest of the heroes followed, racing toward the fallen tower. The army remained where they were, bloody, bruised, and battered, but unable to look away from the ruin. Tears welled in many eyes. Some fell to their knees in prayer. Others embraced each other, crying in relief. They had done it. The nightmare was over. They would return home as victors. As heroes.
Inside the collapsed structure, where once a pristine throne room had stood, now lay rubble and ruin. Amid the wreckage, the Diamond Dragon struggled to rise. Blood oozed from dozens of wounds. His limbs trembled, barely able to support him. His body was on the verge of collapse, yet still he stood.
He looked across the destroyed chamber and found his enemy. The necromancer lay in two pieces. His torso writhed on the floor, arms twitching as he coughed up thick, black blood.
"No. No. I cannot fall. Not here," the necromancer gasped between fits of coughing. He dragged himself forward, inching toward the statue that stood undisturbed at the end of the room. It had survived the destruction. A monument to something forgotten, it now became the necromancer's final hope.
Behind him, the Diamond Dragon stepped forward. His foot came down hard on the necromancer's tattered robe, pinning him in place. With silent finality, he reached down and flipped the dying king onto his back so they could face one another.
The necromancer looked up at him, eyes flickering with both dread and acceptance. He chuckled weakly.
"Would you like to know something funny?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "It would seem I will not be traveling to the Netherworld alone. You will b—"
Before he could finish, the Diamond Dragon brought his foot down. There was a sickening crunch, and the necromancer moved no more.
A soft smile formed on the hero's face.
"I did it," he whispered. "I kept my promise."
His mind drifted to the beginning. To the one person he had always fought for. The one person he wished could see him now.
"Dragon!"
A voice came, and then she was in his arms. Archelon threw herself into him, clutching his battered body tightly. She held on as if he might vanish with the wind. He smiled, resting his head against hers.
"I am alright. Nothing Wyrm cannot fix," he said softly, tilting her chin up so their eyes met. Then he kissed her gently on the lips. Afterall, this woman, feared and admired in equal measure, was his wife.
"Please. Save that for later. None of us need to see that sort of thing," Behemoth said, his deep voice rumbling with laughter as he entered the ruined hall. The other heroes followed behind him, each looking at Dragon with eyes that held something more than relief.
"It is good to see you all safe," Dragon said, his voice filled with warmth. "Thank you. Because of you, we are so close to the end."
Archelon remained in his arms, refusing to let go.
"The heart is in that statue," he continued, pointing to the statue that had survived the battle. Despite the devastation around it, the monument remained pristine. It depicted a robed figure holding a scythe, its face obscured beneath a hood.
"If what the Doctor told us is true, taking that heart may revert everything back to the way it was before the Emergence. The dungeons may vanish. The world might begin to heal again. Whatever happens after this, know that I consider each of you my family. My brothers and sisters. And if you ever need me, I will be there."
His words were sincere. Honest. From the heart.
But he failed to notice the expressions that flickered across the faces of the others.
"About that," Phoenix muttered. His gaze drifted toward the past. Toward a world before the Emergence. "I really do not think I can give this power up."
Hatred began to twist his voice.
"What do you me—" the Diamond Dragon began, but his voice faltered. A sharp, icy pain blossomed in his chest. He looked down slowly and saw her. His wife still clung to him, but in her hand, a dagger made of shimmering ice protruded from his heart.
For a moment, there was no pain. The adrenaline dulled everything. Then, as if the illusion of peace shattered, it all came rushing in. Every nerve screamed at once.
Before he could even process the betrayal, a massive tower shield struck him from behind. The force sent him flying through the air, the dagger still embedded in his chest. He crashed across the ruined throne room. Bones snapped. Muscles tore. The last of his unbroken ribs shattered as he collided with the ground. And before he could react or even draw breath, a fireball struck him square in the face.
The explosion deformed his once flawless features. Fire and pain overwhelmed his senses. But the agony did not stop there. A wave of flame followed, a relentless torrent of heat that engulfed his body. Flesh sizzled and cracked. Skin blistered and split. Blood boiled inside his veins. And all the while, Phoenix stood nearby, his expression twisted with hatred and madness, pouring every ounce of mana he had into the relentless flames.
Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed Phoenix by the shoulder and forced him back. Behemoth, his face solemn and stern, leaned down and stared at him coldly.
"That is enough." His voice, usually filled with energy and power, now carried a hollow sadness. His shield, stained with Diamond's blood, hung at his side.
"He isn't dead yet!" Phoenix shouted, furious that he had been interrupted.
"He will be soon. Let him die in peace," Behemoth said, turning away from the charred form of the fallen hero. He looked over at the figure in the hood.
"Do you have it?" he called out.
"The heart is secured. Do not worry," the cloaked Eldritch replied. He stood beside the shattered remains of the statue. In his hand, he held a glowing gemstone, iridescent and larger than a man's head. It shimmered with every color imaginable.
"Good. Get going. We have a mess to clean up when we return," Behemoth commanded. Phoenix hesitated for a moment, then ceased his objections and turned away. The body of humanity's greatest champion lay motionless on the ground, unrecognizable beneath burns and blood.
One by one, the heroes looked back. Some lingered longer than others, each expression carrying a different emotion. Regret. Guilt. Contempt. But none stayed.
Only three people remained.
Archelon knelt beside what was left of her husband. She pressed a kiss to his blackened forehead. Her voice was soft and trembling.
"I will not let them forget you, my love. Rest well. You earned it."
Then she too stood and walked away, never once looking back.
Only Behemoth and the fallen hero remained.
The giant knelt down, his massive shadow falling across the ruined floor. He placed a hand gently on what was left of his friend's shoulder.
"I am sorry it came to this, old friend," he said quietly. "I hope you can forgive me. This was never an easy choice. But you and I… we want very different things for this world."
He stood up and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing through the broken halls. He left the hero to die in the same labyrinth he had given everything to destroy.
The pain faded. His body no longer screamed. The agony had passed. He was dying.
Only his spirit remained.
He remembered her voice. Those final words.
"Rest well. You earned it."
It would be so easy. Let go. Give in. He was tired. So tired.
For ten years, he had fought for others. Sacrificed everything. Loved, lost, and endured more pain than any soul should bear. And when the end came, it came not as a reward, but as a betrayal.
Was it worth it? No. He knew that now.
But that was the life he had been given.
And the thought of rest, of peace, called to him like a lullaby.
He tried to think of nothing. Let the darkness take him. But then, an image formed. A face. A smile. Someone long gone.
A promise.
"I am sorry. I could not keep my promise..." he thought.
But then, as if summoned by his despair, that same image spoke.
"Save this world," it said.
"Be the person you always wanted to save you."
The words were soft, but they cut deeper than any blade.
He had lived by them. Fought by them. Bled for them.
Was this truly the end? Was this how it would end?
No.
No.
No!
"No!"
He screamed the word within the depths of his soul. His voice echoed in the void.
His body had given out. His mind followed close behind. But his spirit burned. It raged. It howled. It refused to die.
This was not the end.
It could not be the end.
He had made a promise.
He would keep it.
Whether in this world or the next, he would rise again.
These were the final thoughts of the man known to all as the Diamond Dragon.
And to the world, it seemed as though his legend had come to an end.