The air burns with the stench of charred flesh and sulfur. A crimson sky churns with ash and smoke. Hell's endless battlefield roars with screams, but amidst the chaos stands a figure — towering, clad in thorned, bloodied armor, cape flowing like a shadow of death.
The world screamed.
Hell's blood-soaked plains churned beneath a sky shredded by firestorms. Ash fell like rain, thick and choking. The stench of burnt flesh, molten metal, and sulfur clawed at the air. Here, in this endless inferno, only one presence dared move — slow, steady, relentless.
A towering figure clad in spiked, thorned armor stepped through the carnage like a god of war. His cape billowed behind him, soaked in the crimson ichor of countless demons torn apart. Each heavy footfall was a death sentence, a promise carved into the very bones of Hell itself.
The Doom Slayer.
"The only thing they fear is you."
His gauntlet clenched, veins pulsing with raw power. The chains of rage inside him were ready to snap.
Ahead, a towering demon emerged — black scales shimmering with molten veins, its maw filled with jagged teeth dripping with acid. It charged, a furious bellow shaking the sulfurous air.
The Slayer didn't flinch. He raised his Shield Saw — the serrated teeth spinning with a hellish growl, hungry for flesh.
With a guttural roar, he lunged.
The chainsaw tore through muscle and bone in a spray of gore and sparks. The demon's howl cut short, its head spinning free, blood gushing like a waterfall over the scorched ground.
The Slayer's movements were a dance of violence — brutal, precise, merciless. He swung the Chained Mace, the heavy spiked ball smashing ribs, cracking skulls, pulverizing armor. Limbs were ripped, faces shattered, screams silenced in a bloody symphony.
The air pulsed with raw energy, the primal sound of his warpath echoing through Hell itself.
Then, beneath his heavy boot, something shifted.
A rune-covered mechanism, ancient and cracked, groaned as it awakened. The Slayer froze, senses razor-sharp.
From the depths of the stone, a swirling red ruin portal erupted, spilling dark energy like liquid fire. The battlefield blurred as the portal's pull sucked the Slayer forward.
A voice — low, commanding, ancient — whispered in his mind:
"Rip and tear… till it's done."
His eyes flashed.
And then — darkness.
The roar of Hell was replaced by silence.
He landed hard, armor scraping against rough earth. The scent of blood was gone. No sulfur, no fire, no screams. Only the quiet rustle of wind through tall grass and trees.
It was night.
The moon hung pale and indifferent in the sky, casting silver light over the tranquil landscape. The soft whisper of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl. This world was alien — peaceful and fragile.
The Doom Slayer rose, every movement slow, deliberate. His bloodstained armor gleamed darkly in the moonlight, the thorned edges glinting like deadly stars. The Shield Saw hummed softly, eager for destruction. The Combat Shotgun rested heavy at his side, loaded and ready. His Power Gauntlet flexed, the metal plates creaking with restrained fury.
He was a war god fallen into a world of shadows.
The ground beneath his feet was soft earth and moss — not cracked stone and scorched bone. A cold breeze whispered past him, tugging at his cape, carrying faint sounds from afar: the crackling of a fire, low voices speaking in a tongue unknown but urgent.
The Slayer's eyes narrowed beneath his helmet. He scanned the horizon — towering trees standing like silent sentinels, their leaves shimmering silver in the moonlight. Somewhere, far off, faint light flickered against the dark.
No demon had set foot here — not yet.
But they would.
Because he was here.
A silent predator.
The harbinger of violence.
The end of all things unholy.
He moved forward — a shadow that devoured the night.
The wind howled, carrying the echo of that voice again, haunting and relentless:
"Rip and tear… till it's done."