You stand crowned by wealth tainted with despair.
Your purse grows heavy with cursed gold.
You have taken all that glitters from the dead.
Even in ruin, fortune favors the bold.
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.
You cleanse the shadows with righteous steel.
The dead begin to fear the living once more.
The weight of gold begins to whisper to your soul.
The curse deepens—your humanity fades with each victory.
The first of the fallen crumble before your blade.
Your body moves by instinct, bound to an endless rite.
You spin through the abyss as though mocking the reaper himself.
A few pieces of hope shimmer in your grasp.
Each tumble defies death’s grasp—each breath a borrowed gift.
You move like a whisper between the blades of fate.
The dance begins—grace guides your every evasion.
You stand unbroken, a beacon in the darkness.
The seal breaks—what was once buried now whispers your name.
