The chamber trembled under the weight of a godless roar. Shattered stone rained from above as Doomslayer stumbled, blood dripping in dark rivulets through the cracks of his cracked Praetor Suit. His breath was ragged, not from fear, but from pain—a pain he had long forgotten how to feel. His left arm hung limp, shattered at the elbow; a horned claw had torn through it moments ago like paper.

Before him towered the beast—an unholy colossus of bone and flame, twice the size of any Baron, crowned with jagged obsidian antlers and wrapped in a living storm of infernal energy. Its name had no translation. It was ancient, made to kill gods… and it had come for the Slayer.

He lunged anyway.

The Doomblade sparked as it scraped across the demon’s hide—useless. His shotgun fired point-blank into its chest—harmless. A tail like a battering ram smashed him across the chamber, flinging him through a stone pillar. He crashed to the ground, unmoving for a moment. The HUD flickered violently. Health critical. Systems failing.

He pushed himself up.

The beast stomped forward. One blow from its fiery axe crushed his knee, forcing him down. Another tore his helmet clean off, exposing bloodied flesh and one cold, defiant eye.

Still, he didn’t scream.

Instead, he growled—a low, broken thing of rage and hatred—as he raised his shattered gauntlet. He was dying, bones cracked, lungs pierced, vision blurring… but he would not beg. He would not kneel.

The demon raised its weapon.