Atlas wanders the blood soaked halls once more. The usual tendrils that adhere to these disturbed walls and corners ooze their velvet life before him. Warm red lights of this unholy being unnerve him, but he must move forward.

Screams still echo the choked corridors, only now filled with hate and despise. Shifting shadows whisper of conspiracy. The eldritch entities grow larger, and walls close to crush him.

They wish to remind him of their power, and of his littleness in this realm. The echoes gossip of foul intent and plot against him.

He is not enough! He has grown vistigil! Useless! He is no savior! He is Judas! He foolishly believes in hope! He has become irrational! He craves death and despair! He is selfish! He is afraid! He abuses his peers! He is not a hero!

The voices of resolve obediently cease. The embracing passageway opens up lovingly. There is nothing but the Creature. It's will is all that matters or ever could matter. There is nothing else in this realm but its intent and indefatigable purpose.

The crimson flesh steadily narrows. What were once gargantuan sized limbs are now no more than minor veins. They mercifully grant him gaping space that he may gratefully traverse. It is not intrinsically evil. It is not a monster. We are the true monsters that plague the ill fated souls of this malevolent existence.

The Destroyer is but a iridescent mirror. It is the vileness of humanity made into hideous flesh. It is a sickly manifestation of mankind's great sins. In their wickedness and evil, they have left nothing but the black sickness of morality in their wake, fruitlessly biding their time as their meaningless lives slowly grind to an inevitable halt. They righteously deserve this unruly expiration for their vacuous folly. After all, it was them who made The Alpha incarnate.

The Father leads him back to the classroom he had left behind so long ago. Glass shards and metal shrapnel have been swept away. This is his now, fondly conceded to be his sempiternal lodging should he ever need it. The Omega compels him to the locker, still toppled and defaced from times past. He takes hold of it, and wipes away the blood and soot that has collected before returning to its rightful perch.

The Creator furtively endorses him to observe its recent contents. The hinges memorably squeak as they present their artifact: a knife. His knife. Scarlet irchor still varnishes the newly sharpened blade. The old rotten handle has been exchanged for pure titanium, glimmering as bright as a star in the sanguine light. The Creature entices him to use it.