The Son of Apocalypse walks through the hall of his Barony in the Lands of Apocalypse. His seven foot armored frame crackles with fiery energy. He takes a moment to grab a weak, pathetic human he was toying with the previous night and drain her life force to sustain himself temporarily. Holocaust takes a sigh of satisfaction

Survival of the Fittest. The Law of the Land. Means I get to kill whoever I want. Glory to Holocaust, the Heir of Apocalypse! And fuck all the bastards who say otherwise.