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 first of the fallen crumble before your blade.
You spin through the abyss as though mocking the reaper himself.
Each tumble defies death’s grasp—each breath a borrowed gift.
You move like a whisper between the blades of fate.
You have taken all that glitters from the dead.
Even in ruin, fortune favors the bold.
The weight of gold begins to whisper to your soul.
The dance begins—grace guides your every evasion.
A few pieces of hope shimmer in your grasp.
The curse deepens—your humanity fades with each victory.
You stand unbroken, a beacon in the darkness.
The seal breaks—what was once buried now whispers your name.
