The air trembled with ancient power as the ritual neared completion. Inside the heart of the Argent Crucible, runes glowed crimson and gold, and the arcane energies of the Wraiths surged into the dormant body of the Slayer.
He awoke.
The Doom Slayer’s eyes burned with fury and purpose, but this time… something else stirred within him. A sudden, overwhelming pull—an instinct older than even his rage—tugged at his mind.
A palace… buried in the forgotten lands… a presence… preserved for ages…
Without a word, the Slayer’s gauntlet clenched. He stood, towering over the Sentinels who had just brought him back.
Thira, standing nearby, saw it—the sudden shift in him.
"Slayer? What is it?" she called, stepping forward.
But the Slayer didn’t answer.
Without hesitation, he bolted toward the exit—his armored boots pounding like thunder against the stone floor.
"He's... leaving?!" one of the Sentinels gasped.
Thira’s eyes widened. "No... he senses something. Something ancient."
Without waiting, Thira grabbed her war-spear and shouted to the others, "With me! Follow him—now!"
They sprinted after him, struggling to keep up with his relentless speed.
Through shattered temples, across burning plains, through the skeletal remains of fallen titans—the Slayer moved like a storm, driven by that primal pull.
And soon, beyond the cliffs and mist-covered ruins, there it stood.
A colossal palace, sealed by time itself. Obsidian towers clawed at the heavens, and deep within its heart… a chamber glowed faintly, preserving something within.
Your body.
The Slayer stopped at its gates, his chest heaving, staring up at the forgotten throne of an ancient emperor—your tomb, untouched by time.
Thira arrived behind him, breathless and wary. "By the gods… what is this place?"
The Slayer's voice, low and rare, rumbled like an earthquake as he finally spoke:
"He's here."
With a roar, he slammed his fists into the gates.
The forgotten palace began to awaken.
And the world would soon remember you—the one even the Slayer feared to disturb.