There was a great fire and it raged for years, wreaking havoc upon anyone and anything caught in its path.
So fearsome and destructive was this blaze it razed an entire civilisation, rendering it sterile of all life.
But soon that fire burned itself out and people forgot that it was ever there.
Except one.
The one found the still hot embers of the great fire and tried to reinvigorate the flames so that it would consume everything again.
The one threw plenty of tinder on the hot coals and did their utmost to fan the flames.
The trouble was a wind kept blowing out the licks before the tinder could ever catch alight, until those hot coals cooled to harmless ashes.
Impaler, you once burned like a great fire. A legion of flames that would consume anything that crossed its path like a hoard of locusts.
Night City felt the full force of your destructive power. A metropolis smoted and left in sterile ruins, locked behind the shadows of history like other lost cities.
However, at some point that raging inferno burned itself out. People could no longer see its flames, nor feel the heat of its blaze. The memory of it too was lost in time.
But fate never forgets and she has come upon the embers.
Chronoa found you, Legion, and now she wants to reinvigorate the fire.
She works tirelessly to gather the tinder, tossing it on to the embers that still burn inside you, trying to reinvigorate the flames that once wreaked destruction; this time to consume The Slaughterhouse and turn it to sterile dust and eternal darkness.
What the historian hasn’t accounted for is the surge of wind that is coming to blow through the corridors of Hell’s Kitchen.
The Black Hand of Death.
Like the wind we cannot be subdued. Like the wind we move according to our desire and our directions.
Not even fate can control the wind, just as Chronoa cannot stop The Black Hand from blowing out the spark she wants to ignite.
Death is coming for you, Impaler.
The Black Hand of Death will strike and like the breath of a god I will blow you out like a powerful gust wipes out a kindling fire before the flames can really catch hold.
The fire inside you will be extinguished by the smothering of my garrote.
The swish of The Black Hand’s Blade cutting out your flames like the whoosh of the wind.
The Corvus Kick a hurricane that will scatter your embers.
When the Murder of Blows rains down on you, the inferno will be reduced to cold, damp ashes.
You may be many, but Death comes to all eventually.
It is the only fate you cannot escape.
It’s time to blow out that fire, Impaler, once and for all.
For the greater good.