Valkorath Realm, Soraya City.

Inside the Purification Tower, beams of brilliant blue energy lanced out, striking Orion’s mirrored avatar. The light pulsed with an intense, scouring power, as if trying to burn some deep, malevolent substance from his very being. Faint runes of a bloodline curse flared across his skin before being suppressed and vanishing once more.

Within the metaphysical space of his bloodline, a colossal predator bird took flight, its shadow covering the psychic landscape below. A thrill of pure ecstasy shot through Orion. Through the creature’s eyes, he could finally see the end of the endless swarm of curse monsters.

The cursed blood-chrysalis sealed within him was almost fully refined.

A new, unique avatar was about to be born from its ashes.

A silent, piercing cry echoed in his mind as he gazed down upon his inner world, his soul filled with a bottomless, predatory greed.

Almost there. This victory is mine.

Driven by the thought, he accelerated his consumption of the curse monsters.

***

The Abyss. The Isle of Embers.

The First Army and the Wraith Knight army moved in two separate wings, plundering the resources of the Isle of Embers from opposite directions. The entire region, Orion could feel, had descended into a storm of relentless slaughter. Death was a constant, ticking clock.

And he was the one winding it.

This was the Abyss. Until he was truly invincible, he had to play by its rules. Fortunately, his true body was born of the giant tribe, and his avatar was of the Death-Soul race. Neither race shied away from killing. Both revered strength, living and dying by the simple law that the strong devour the weak.

He didn’t find the carnage repulsive. In fact, a dark, primal part of him reveled in it.

"My lord."

The voice pulled Orion from his thoughts. The three Scourge Wardens—Eparus, followed by Holrivus and Thronlis—were approaching his resting place.

"What is it?" Orion opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto Eparus.

Behind him, sensing their approach, Standard-bearer Vex stirred. The abyssal dragon Xalathar and the Dracolich Phorzak, who stood guard at his sides, opened their ancient eyes, their collective stare pinning Eparus to the spot. Low growls rumbled in the dragons’ chests—a clear warning.

"My lord, we, the Scourge Warden army, have a gift for you."

"A gift?"

"Indeed."

Orion’s interest was piqued. He remained silent, his steady gaze giving Eparus permission to proceed.

Eparus rose and walked toward the still-smoldering Coalescence Formation—a massive pyre built from the corpses of the defeated Doomguard. By some unknown method, Eparus opened a crater at its peak, revealing a churning pool of molten slag that was rendering down the very essence of the fallen demons.

He began to chant, his voice a gravelly incantation.

"You are the herald of destruction, the symbol of the flame, the master of new creation. Oh, fire! Burn with our will! Forge this new body! With doom as the material and this pyre as the furnace, in this conflagration of the end, forge for my lord a sword to conquer in his name! Let the blade find its temper in your heart..."

The ritualistic prayer was long and in a language Orion didn’t understand, but he knew its purpose. He simply had to wait.

Nearly half a day passed. Xalathar and the Dracolich had closed their eyes, dozing in the oppressive heat, when Eparus suddenly let out a deafening roar. At his signal, Holrivus and Thronlis led the other Scourge Wardens in a strange, percussive dance around the burning pyre.

Another fifteen minutes crawled by.

"CONGEAL!" Holrivus roared, his arms thrown toward the sky.

The crater atop the pyre erupted, spitting out a ball of reddish-gold fire that pulsed with blinding light. Even from a distance, Orion could feel its immense, searing heat.

"My lord, receive your blade. It is a gift from all the Scourge Wardens."

Holrivus controlled the sphere of fire, striding toward Orion. As he drew near, he dropped to one knee, and the fiery orb, easily six feet in diameter, floated gently to a stop just before Orion.

A strange light gleamed in Orion’s eyes. The sphere was obviously scorching, yet under Holrivus’s control, he felt none of its heat.

"My lord, you need only reach out and take it. The weapon will know its master."

Orion glanced at Eparus, who kept his head bowed, his deference absolute. Orion’s gaze then swept over the ranks of Scourge Wardens arrayed behind him. Every single one of them was watching him, their eyes wide with anticipation.

"Very well."

Orion’s right hand, the hand of his Deathly Soul-Reaper form, slowly reached into the heart of the flame.

The sensation was perfect. The grip felt as if it had been molded for his hand and his alone.

His silver eyes began to glow. As the Scourge Wardens watched, holding their collective breath, Orion drew the sword from the fire, inch by inch.

It was a weapon born of hellfire. The hilt was jagged and cruel. In place of a crossguard, a pair of leathery Doomguard wings were spread wide. The blade itself was a shimmering crimson-gold, wreathed in flames that would never be extinguished. A serrated section near the hilt was covered in a dense lattice of arcane runes.

"A fine blade," Orion said, his voice low with admiration.

This was a king’s sword, custom-forged for him. Its shape, its weight, its very feel resonated with his will. To a degree, it could even resize itself to match the wielder’s stature.

He gave it an experimental swing, the weapon feeling like an extension of his own arm. He couldn’t help but ask, "Does it have a name?"

"My lord, the blade was forged from the bodies of the Doomguard and their apocalyptic power," Eparus explained. "It was made for you alone. It can be used to strike down our enemies, the Doomguard, and, should we ever fail you, it can be used to strike down any one of us. We ask that you, my lord, grant this sword its name."

Orion didn’t answer immediately. He gripped the sword tighter, executing another two fluid swings. He specialized in the trident, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t wield a sword. Besides, he understood this weapon wasn’t truly made for combat.

Its primary function was fear.

Fear for the Doomguard, and fear for the Scourge Wardens.

This was the ultimate symbol of his victory, the final proof of his dominion over them. The forging of this blade bound the Scourge Warden army to him, body and soul. From this day forward, any chance of him commanding the Doomguard was gone. He had chosen his side.

"Forged from Doom, and brought forth by the Scourge," Orion declared, his voice ringing with authority. "Let it be known as Doomscourge."

In terms of raw power, the blade barely qualified as Legendary-tier. He had far superior weapons. But its significance was immeasurable. This was a king’s blade, a scepter of power, meant to be worn as a symbol of his might.

As he held Doomscourge, he could feel its properties flowing into him, a silent communion between master and weapon.