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