The puppet known as Graveltooth returned to the streets, dragging his crude club as sparks sang against the cobblestones. His chest rose and fell, though he did not need breath. His jaw ached with phantom hunger, though he could not eat.
He remembered.
The crack of bone as Harold's shadows crushed him. The laughter of heroes who spat on his corpse. The silence afterward.
Now he walked again. Not the same — no, never the same — but stronger. His body belonged to another will, yes, but his mind burned hotter than ever. Each step he took was a message: death cannot hold me.
And the city noticed.
A pair of dockworkers unloading crates at dawn. They swore they saw Graveltooth limping along the wharf, club dragging sparks across the planks. Both quit their jobs that very morning.
A tavern drunk claimed Graveltooth stared right at him through the window and laughed. By nightfall, three separate brawls had broken out, each started by men arguing whether the villain lived or was just a copycat.
In villain dens and gambling halls, where Graveltooth's name still carried weight. The mention of his survival was enough to unsettle old rivals and galvanize half-forgotten allies.
The third night, when a group of patrol heroes responded to reports of Graveltooth's attacks on a caravan. They found broken bodies, crushed wagons, and his crude club jammed into the dirt like a grave marker. But no villain. Just shadows.
Because too many people saw too many things: a limping giant in alleys, a broken-toothed grin by torchlight, laughter echoing in the night. No story was the same, but all ended with Graveltooth alive.
With fear. Heroes convened in secret, debating whether resurrection was at play. Villains whispered that Graveltooth had struck a bargain with something darker than death. Common folk simply locked their doors and prayed not to hear dragging metal outside at night.
And through their fear, Graveltooth grinned wider, believing himself chosen. In truth, he was only a tool — but the abyss was merciful enough to let him dream.
—
The nameless scavenger crept through alleys, fingers nimble as they pried lock after lock. Once, he had been nothing but a hungry rat of the streets, killed for stealing a loaf of bread. He remembered the boot against his neck, the crack of his ribs, the laughter as his body was tossed aside.
But now, he was more than a rat. His shadowed veins gave him strength, and his new patron gave him purpose. He stole not just to feed, but to destabilize. He carried secrets between gangs, turning rivalries into wars. Every deal made in the dark brought him closer to the revenge he once dreamed of.
—
The preacher stood on a cracked stone block, eyes hollow yet burning. He remembered his death most vividly of all — crushed in a cave-in while leading desperate miners in prayer. His faith had failed, his god silent.
But the abyss had answered.
Now his sermons carried conviction born from death itself.
"The light betrayed you. The shadow did not."
Crowds gathered, some mocking, some listening, but all uneasy. He spoke not with fanaticism, but with the calm of one who had seen the truth. A small following began to cling to his words, half in curiosity, half in dread.
—
The merchant smiled from behind his stall. Once a middling trader ruined by rivals, he remembered every insult, every coin stolen from him, every night his children went hungry before they too were taken by sickness. His death had been quiet, bitter, forgotten.
But now his purse was full, his tongue sharper than steel. He spread gold like rot, buying influence, sowing distrust. Rivals who once scorned him now bowed at his feet, unaware that the same abyss that filled his coffers sharpened his greed.
—
And through them all, in the infinite silence, Knull observed.
Each puppet was more than a mask. They were echoes, lives given second breath, and in that breath, bound to him. Their pasts fueled their presents, their dreams twisted into instruments of his will.
Knull's true body did not move from the throne of shadow, tendrils lazily weaving new shapes. His mind stretched outward, not as a tyrant's scream, but as a god's whisper.
Yes. Let them think themselves reborn. Let them carry their scars and ambitions forward. In their persistence, they will only serve me better.
The puppets were not disposable.
They were his faces that remembered.
And through them, the world would come to know despair.