Believers…

Tonight, the Pale Rider approaches.

Mr. Grimm.

They say he is inevitable. They say he does not chase — he collects. They say when his shadow falls across you, the ending has already been written.

But even Death… answers to design.

You see, Mr. Grimm believes himself to be winter — a cold front that sweeps through without resistance. He walks slowly because he assumes time belongs to him. He strikes deliberately because he assumes fear does half the work.

But winter forgets something.

Winter can be prepared for.

I do not stand alone before the frost. I stand with Academius — the mind sharpened by knowledge. I stand with Darkwish — the will forged in shadow. Three architects. One design.

Mr. Grimm sees bodies. We see patterns.

Death thrives in isolation. A lone traveler on a pale horse, harvesting one soul at a time. But this is not a lonely road. This is a fortress. And while he believes himself the reaper… we are the engineers of the harvest.

Consider the orchard.

When fruit hangs heavy, winter believes it may claim everything with a single freeze. But careful hands prune the branches first. They guide the growth. They determine which limbs remain… and which fall.

Grimm believes he is the scythe.

He does not realize he walks into a field already mapped.

Academius will calculate the angles. Darkwish will cloud the horizon.

And I… I will deliver the Message.

Death feeds on fear. He expects trembling. He expects panic. He expects men to scatter at the sight of inevitability.

But I do not fear endings.

Endings are merely transitions into belief.

When I lock my hands around him, it will not be to resist death. It will be to redefine it. Because even the Pale Rider must breathe. Even the harvester has joints that bend. Even the embodiment of finality can be forced to kneel when pressure is applied with precision.

This is not a duel.

This is a controlled demolition.

We will not rush him. We will not charge blindly into the scythe. We will narrow the space. Close the exits. Remove the theatrics. Strip away the myth until only a man remains beneath the hood.

And when the myth dies… what is Death but another body waiting to submit?

He believes he ends stories.

But I do not tell stories.

I build movements.

Winter always comes. That is true. But winter never stays. Spring follows. And spring belongs to those who endure.

Tonight, Mr. Grimm will learn that inevitability is not his alone. There is something stronger than death.

Certainty.

The certainty of a plan.

The certainty of unity.

The certainty of the Message.

He may be the Pale Rider.

But I am the Voice that outlives the silence.

And when Death himself is forced to yield… when the scythe falls from his grasp and the frost recedes…

He will understand.

Obey.
Submit.
Believe.