The battlefield was a ruin of hellish fire and broken stone, a cathedral of carnage where the Doomslayer stood bloodied, shoulders heaving. His Praetor suit was fractured—scorched by plasma, punctured by claws, dented from unrelenting impacts. Cracks split across his visor, letting in flickers of harsh, red light. He grunted, staggering forward through the smoke. But this time, the air didn’t tremble with his fury. This time, he wasn’t charging.

The beast before him towered—horned, hulking, a juggernaut of bone and molten flesh, its barbed arms slick with blood. It moved with cruel purpose, stalking closer as if savoring the rare sight of the Slayer wounded. One eye glowed like a dying sun; the other was a black, rotting pit. With every step, it laughed—low and guttural, a sound that carved mockery into the silence.

“Even the great Slayer bleeds,” it sneered, voice like rusted blades dragged through flesh. “They said you couldn’t fall. That you couldn’t break.”

Doomslayer lunged, but he was slower—his movements sluggish, arms trembling from exhaustion. The beast caught him mid-swing, claws locking around his forearm. Then came the first crack. His elbow bent the wrong way. A guttural scream tore from his throat, buried behind his helmet. The demon lifted him, slammed him down spine-first into jagged rubble. Another blow to the ribs. Another. Another. Fists like anvils crushed him into the earth, methodical, surgical. It wasn’t rage—it was punishment.

“You were never immortal,” the demon hissed, leaning close. “You were a story. And stories die.”

The final blow sent him hurtling, bouncing across the shattered cathedral floor like a ragdoll. He came to rest slumped against the base of a broken pillar, legs sprawled, arms limp. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and thick. His head sagged forward, visor flickering, sparks dancing across his armor. No growl. No breath. No resistance. For the first time in centuries, the Slayer was still.