Kane, his body a shattered wreck, his spirit teetering on the precipice of oblivion, succumbed to a wave of despair. He was utterly powerless, drained of all energy, all will to fight. He couldn't move, couldn't even twitch a finger. His wounds, raw and gaping, were bleeding profusely, and he knew, with a chilling certainty, that if he remained in this state for another hour, he would surely die from blood loss.
'Crap,' he thought, his mind a whirlwind of pain and regret. 'What does it take to defeat this monster? What am I supposed to do now? I've thrown everything I have at it, and it's still standing, still burning with that malevolent rage.'
He felt a familiar despair, a crushing sense of helplessness that he had experienced once before, on that fateful day when his parents were brutally murdered before his eyes. He remembered the world slowing down, the sounds fading into a muffled roar as the Nightmare Creature, a grotesque harbinger of death, had delivered the killing blow.
'How am I supposed to live a peaceful life, the life I promised my mom?' he thought, his mind filled with bitter irony. 'I survived the hunt in the outskirts, endured all those trials and tribulations... for what? What kind of cruel joke is this? What's with my fate?'
As he lay there, his lifeblood draining away, his vision blurring, Kane looked at the Nightmare Creature once more. It was still burning, its charred and mutilated form a grotesque spectacle of agony and defiance. And then, a desperate, almost suicidal idea sparked in his mind.
It was a long shot, a gamble that would require a sacrifice, a final, desperate act that might very well end his life. But it was his last hope, the only chance he had left to take down this monstrous abomination.
'This is it,' he thought, his voice a silent plea, a desperate prayer born of equal parts faint hope and overwhelming despair. 'This is my last stand. War God, please, if you're out there, if you can hear me, help me. I bear the scent of Dread, I am a follower of the darkness, and I will not change my allegiance. That is who I am, and I will not deny it. But I will perform this act, this final, desperate gambit, with faith in you, or in the Dreadful One... whoever is listening. This will be my offering, my final performance for you.'
With a surge of adrenaline fueled by sheer desperation, Kane summoned the last vestiges of his strength. He pushed himself, inch by agonizing inch, towards the altar, the stone slab where he had been bound, the place where this nightmare had begun. He clawed his way up, his body trembling, his vision swimming, until he finally managed to slump against its cold, unyielding surface.
As he did so, the Cruel Tempest, sensing his movement, its burning form still driven by a furious rage, suddenly leaped towards him, intending to crash onto the altar, to crush him beneath its fiery weight.
But Kane was ready.
With a final, desperate act of will, he summoned the Aracne Sword, the weapon materializing in his hand with a flash of crimson and black. He didn't try to wield it, didn't have the strength. Instead, he threw it.
The sword flew through the air, a deadly projectile aimed at the creature's heart. The Cruel Tempest, its movements hampered by its burning form, tried to dodge, but it was too late. The sword struck home, piercing its core, its central mass of twisted flesh and swirling energy.
But that wasn't Kane's true plan.
The Aracne Sword, as he had thrown it, had also unleashed its unique ability. The threads of darkness, the strands of woven steel that comprised the weapon, had extended, lashing out like tendrils of shadow. Two of those threads had snaked around the altar, anchoring the weapon to the stone.
Kane's plan was simple, yet incredibly risky. As the Aracne Sword pierced the creature's heart, the threads attached to the altar acted as a slingshot, pulling the creature back with immense force. The thrown sword, instead of simply piercing the creature, became the focal point of a counter-attack, a final, desperate gambit.
The plan worked.
The Aracne Sword, anchored to the altar, tore through the creature's heart, and the creature was violently pulled back, its momentum reversed. The force of the impact was devastating. The Cruel Tempest roared in agony, its burning form convulsing.
But the force of the impact had consequences for Kane as well.
The Aracne Sword, driven back with such power, pierced through his own body. The blade, already stained with the creature's ichor, now emerged from his stomach, the pain searing and unbearable.
Kane groaned, his body arching in agony. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was it. If this predicament continued, if he remained impaled on the Aracne Sword, he would die within fifteen minutes, the blood loss proving too much even for his resilient body.
But he didn't care.
He stared at the burning creature, his eyes filled with a grim satisfaction. 'This is it,' he thought, his voice a silent snarl. 'Die, you motherfucker. If I die, I'm taking you with me. We'll both be pinned to this altar, a testament to our mutual destruction.'
Both Kane and the Cruel Tempest were now impaled, locked in a grotesque embrace, their fates intertwined. The Aracne Sword, its energy spent, its purpose fulfilled, was slowly disintegrating, its form flickering and fading.
Suddenly, through the ringing in his ears, Kane heard the ancient, resonant voice of the Nightmare Spell.
[You have offered a Sacrifice to the War God]
A flicker of hope, a desperate yearning for salvation, ignited within Kane's shattered soul.
[The gods are dead, and cannot hear you]
The words were like a dagger to the heart, extinguishing that fragile hope, replacing it with a cold, hollow despair.
[Your soul bears the mark of divinity]
A faint glimmer of something... something ancient and powerful... stirred within him.
[War God stirs from eternal slumber]
The air crackled with an unseen energy, a palpable sense of power that made the very stones of the altar tremble.
[Even though you bear the scent of Dread, War God sends your blessings beyond the grave]
The words were a contradiction, a paradox that defied all logic. But as Kane heard them, he felt a warmth spreading through his ravaged body, a surge of energy that revitalized his failing strength.
[Follower of Dread, receive your blessings]
The Cruel Tempest, its burning form still writhing, suddenly convulsed. It shrieked in agony, a sound that was both terrifying and triumphant. And then, before Kane's disbelieving eyes, the Nightmare Creature was ripped apart. Not by any visible force, not by any physical weapon, but by an unseen power, an invisible hand that tore it asunder, its burning remains scattering into dust and ash.
Kane was stunned. He couldn't comprehend what had just happened. He had expected to die, to drag the creature down with him in a final act of desperation. He had not expected this... this divine intervention.
'Maybe...' he thought, his mind still reeling, 'Maybe it did hear me. Maybe the War God, in its infinite power, did listen to my plea.'
And then, he heard the voice of the Nightmare Spell again, its tone different this time, filled with a strange resonance.
[You have slain an Awakened Titan, Cruel Tempest]
[Your Memory, Aracne Sword, has been destroyed]
[Wake up, Kane! Your nightmare is over]
[Prepare for appraisal...]