The first of the fallen crumble before your blade.
The curse deepens—your humanity fades with each victory.
The dance begins—grace guides your every evasion.
You move like a whisper between the blades of fate.
Each tumble defies death’s grasp—each breath a borrowed gift.
You spin through the abyss as though mocking the reaper himself.
The seal breaks—what was once buried now whispers your name.
You have carved a grim path through the restless dead.
No hollowed soul remains to bar your way.
Your purse grows heavy with cursed gold.
You stand crowned by wealth tainted with despair.
The dead begin to fear the living once more.
Your body moves by instinct, bound to an endless rite.
You cleanse the shadows with righteous steel.
Your path is paved with bones and silence.
A few pieces of hope shimmer in your grasp.
The weight of gold begins to whisper to your soul.
Even in ruin, fortune favors the bold.
You have taken all that glitters from the dead.
You stand unbroken, a beacon in the darkness.
