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God of Vengeance


God of Vengeance


In the blackest heart of night, on the eve of your doom, I write this letter to you.

Not as a man wronged, but as a force of vengeance reborn from the very flames you thought would consume me.

You are the architect of a horror so profound, so transformative, that the man you once knew is no more. In his place stands Grimskull, a being sculpted from the molten agony you so callously drowned me in.

Do you recall the vat, Vincent? That hellish crucible where flesh and spirit fused under the unbearable heat of betrayal?

When you submerged me into its fiery womb, you believed you were extinguishing a life. Instead, you ignited something far worse.

Every nerve in my body screamed as the lava embraced me, each cell alight with a pain so pure, it shattered the very essence of my being. The agony you inflicted was a catalyst, transmuting despair into a wrath so fierce, it burns hotter than the liquid fire that birthed it.

Now, I stand before you, not as Walther, the brother you betrayed, but as Grimskull, the embodiment of your darkest fears. I am the relentless, the unquenchable fire you unwittingly stoked. The flames that licked my flesh have kindled an insatiable hunger for retribution.

Picture yourself, Vincent, not as a master of fate but as the sacrificial offering to the very inferno you once wielded.

I will plunge you into its depths, and as your flesh sears and your bones crackle, you will finally comprehend the enormity of your sin.

But rest assured, old friend, your demise will not be swift; it will be a meticulously orchestrated symphony of suffering.

As you writhe in the clutches of the seething liquid, each moment will echo the eternity of pain you inflicted upon me. This is not mere vengeance; this is divine retribution, a wrathful purge of the betrayal that seeps through your veins.

This is my solemn vow: Your end will be a grotesque mirror of the agony you so thoughtlessly dispensed.

In your final, blistering moments, as you choke on the smoke of your burning flesh, you will gaze into the eyes of the monster you created, and you will know true despair.

You unleashed a demon, Vincent, mistaking my cries of pain for weakness. But those cries were the forging of a conqueror, tempered in the unfathomable depths of betrayal and pain.

As our final confrontation dawns, stare into the abyss of your own making. Know that the darkness that awaits you is not merely the end; it is the reckoning of your own vile deeds.

For I am the shadow of your treachery.

Grimskull, the eternal, the indomitable, the conqueror.

And as you succumb to the hellfire of your own creation, dissolving into nothingness, let this be the last truth that sears itself into your soul: In your betrayal, you crafted not my doom, but your own.

It was not the lava that was your undoing, but your own unforgivable sin.

For in the fires of that betrayal, you forged not a victim, but a god of vengeance.

In pain,