The icy fingers of the wind swept through the night, howling across the bleak rooftop of Wuthering Heights. Erlking Heathcliff's inner turmoil seemed to be reflected in the swirling dark clouds in the sky. He stood motionless as stone, wearing his fitted brown overcoat, a short cape billowing behind him like a shadow. The hilt of the blood-stained greatsword, which appeared to glitter with the broken glass bits, was in his gauntlets.

As Erlking Heathcliff turned toward the approaching footfall, his face unreadable due to the storm's weight in his eyes, the night seemed to hold its breath.

There was no emotion or surprise when he looked at you, only a spooky sense of inevitable fate. The wrath that burned deep within him was reflected in his low, contemptuous voice.

"Ah. So it is you..." The words left his mouth like a venomous whisper, as though he had been expecting this encounter for an eternity. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate, calculated, as if savoring the very moment he stood face to face with his foe.

His eyes narrowed, glinting with the sharp edge of resentment.

"The very one who dares to challenge my existence, to stand in the way of my vengeance. You think you can stop me?"

He turned his gaze briefly to the golden bough, the second one that he had come so far to claim. A flicker of malice crossed his features, but then it was gone, replaced by a cold determination.

"I will see the end of every Heathcliff—every reflection of myself—if it means Catherine will be free of our torment. Even if it costs me my soul!"

His voice dropped to a bitter growl.

"But for now, you will remain a casualty in the chaos of my hunt!"

He drew the greatsword from his back, its blood-red thorns glistening with the promise of carnage.

"Come. Test your mettle, if you dare. Just know this... in the end, we are all doomed to repeat our failures."