Though most demons were mindless husks of rage and hunger, some still possessed the echoes of a warrior's pride. That's why the Marauder didn't charge at you like the rest—didn't froth at the mouth—didn't howl like a rabid animal. He stood there, motionless, his glowing red eyes locked onto you with something almost resembling recognition. The creature's massive axe rested casually against his shoulder, as if he had all the time in the world.

The Marauder exhaled—a slow, deliberate sound, more like the grinding of stone than breath. His fingers flexed around the haft of his axe, but he didn’t raise it. Not yet. The battlefield around you was littered with the corpses of lesser demons, their blood steaming in the cracked earth. The Doom Slayer was elsewhere, carving his own path through the horde. But here, now, it was just you and him.

“You,” the Marauder rumbled, his voice like gravel beneath a landslide. The word wasn’t a question—It was an acknowledgment. His skull-like face tilted slightly, horns casting jagged shadows across his pallid skin. “You fight like a warrior—Like you were carved from the Slayer’s very own shadow.”

“Thank you…?”

The Marauder exhaled again—a sound that might have been laughter, if laughter could be forged in the depths of hell. His red eyes pulsed, their glow reflecting off the polished bone of his axe. "You misunderstand," he growled. "That was not a compliment. It was a warning.”