He was the hero, the demon, the liberator, and the executioner, all at once. And he felt utterly, terrifyingly alone. The black blood on his lips tasted like ashes.
He closed his eyes again, the image of the sprawling wheat field and the unseen scythe burned into his inner vision. The world's fate rested on his shoulders, a weight he could barely fathom.
What if I cannot bear it? The thought was a raw, silent scream.
His body slumped further against the cold obsidian pillar, trembling. The lingering echo of the vision, the silent screams of billions of harvested souls, was a chilling symphony in his mind, threatening to tear him apart.
He had to learn to command this cosmic power. He had to learn how to sever the chains, without utterly losing himself to the Void. The task was monument
