(??? POV)
"Can't hold them off!"
"I can hear them… no… NOOO!"
"Fall back now!"
"They're killing everyone!"
"They're everywhere!"
"We must pray now, brothers!"
"Casualties in the millions…"
"Pray that he is watching!"
"Please… anyone… please… no more…"
"So much blood…"
"For it is not man nor its armies that they fear!"
"For they fear the mark of the beast!"
"Somebody, please! Help us!"
My eyes open…
(Third Person POV)
"I am not one to usually question your judgment, my Lord, but are you certain that this is a good idea? In every timeline created with this being, it all ends in darkness and death."
The voice comes from an angel, his features impossibly perfect. A being of such radiance that, if seen by mortal eyes, they would be blinded by his beauty. His long, flowing hair and piercing golden eyes are matched only by the calm authority in his voice.
Yet, his attention is drawn to the rising mass of darkness before him. A looming presence, impossible to measure, it crackles with energy as though holding back the weight of universes. The darkness is an entity, ancient and unknowable. When the mass of darkness shifts, turning its attention to the angel, the angel immediately falls to his knees in reverence and fear.
The room they stand in is both ethereal and hellish—a vast, cathedral-like space filled with columns that stretch infinitely into a blackened sky, illuminated only by the faint glow of symbols etched into the walls. Faint whispers echo across the chamber, distant screams and howls of torment weaving an ominous symphony that hums beneath the tension.
No words are spoken by the angel at first, but the oppressive silence is broken by a deep, bellowing voice emanating from the dark mass, calm and powerful enough to shake the very foundations of the realm.
"You are right to question. This is no ordinary man. What I am creating here is simply a copy. It was not easy to collect the essence of the slayers. For once their universes die, their essences become useless."
The angel raises his head cautiously, his gaze settling on a red vial floating within the darkness—a vial that seems to pour forth an endless torrent of blood and fragmented pieces of flesh.
"I know that you know where this power comes from, my Lord, but it is a hammer that you do not need. For what purpose does it exist?" The angel's voice is measured, though there is an undercurrent of unease.
The silence that follows is suffocating, the air itself feeling as though it has been drained of all warmth. Then the voice rumbles again, carrying the weight of eternity.
"When I created the angels and the demons of the underworld, I created all of you not for a singular purpose but to fill my realm with color, with life. This, however, shall not be made for that purpose. This shall be my first knife—a weapon to point at the heart of my enemies without sacrificing my angels or my demons. A hammer to be wielded only when nothing else will suffice."
The angel remains kneeling but nods his head in understanding. Yet, his expression remains strained, his golden eyes betraying his inner turmoil.
"You feel as if I am wrong?" The voice, though calm, carries an edge that freezes the angel's soul.
"Never, my Lord! It just feels as if all of us are now… useless. If this experiment succeeds, I myself will question the usefulness of our existence."
Faster than the angel can process, a massive hand formed of pure darkness emerges and rests on his shoulder. The touch, though gentle, carries a weight that is almost unbearable.
"I made you all in the image that I could best see so that I might never be alone. None of you are useless. None of you were created for my amusement alone. This is different—a final weapon, a hammer to take to something unable to be saved."
At that moment, a vast pool of blood materializes in the center of the chamber, its surface rippling with an eerie energy. The angel steps back instinctively, his entire body screaming at him to flee, but he remains steadfast.
From within the darkness, the vial is lifted, and the liquid begins to pour into the pool. As the blood touches the surface, the air fills with a cacophony of screams—agonized howls that claw at the angel's very soul. He winces, unable to look away as the blood begins to bubble and rise, taking on grotesque shapes.
First, an arsenal of weapons emerges from the pool—axes, hammers, swords, and firearms. The weapons radiate with an otherworldly glow, each pulsating with a unique energy. A massive green cannon floats to the surface, its energy swirling like a storm, followed by a gleaming white weapon bathed in golden light.
Then, as if called by the cries of the damned, green energy begins to weave around the weapons, forming intricate patterns that twist and shift. The angel stares in horrified awe as the energy coalesces into something larger—a towering coffin that rises from the pool, its surface etched with ancient, demonic runes. The runes glow a fiery red, pulsating in time with the screams.
The coffin begins to open, chains rattling as they loosen. All of the blood pours into the coffin, along with the weapons. The angel, unable to bear the stench of brimstone and rot, nearly retches, but a protective bubble of light envelops him just in time.
The screams grow louder, rising to a deafening crescendo before suddenly stopping. Silence, thick and oppressive, fills the room as the blood in the coffin begins to solidify. The angel watches in dread as a hand emerges from the now-solidified pool, clutching a massive blade etched with runes and glowing with a crimson light.
A second hand follows, gripping the edge of the coffin as the figure pulls itself free. The figure is tall and muscular, its body covered in blood and gore. Its eyes open—piercing red orbs that seem to burn with an unholy light.
The angel approaches cautiously, trembling as every instinct warns him to stay away. The figure's gaze locks onto him, and before the angel can speak, a blade is pointed at his throat.
There is no hesitation in the figure's movements, no fear—only a primal need to destroy.
Before either can act, the dark presence speaks again, its voice commanding and absolute.
"I order you both to stand down. Ezekiel, leave us."
The angel hesitates, his mouth opening as if to protest, but a single glare from the darkness silences him. He bows and retreats, leaving the two alone.
(??? POV)
"I know you can speak. How do you feel?"
The words are cold and calculating, devoid of emotion.
I nod once, acknowledging the question.
The darkness lets out a low chuckle before releasing me from its grasp. The room around us shifts, the ethereal cathedral giving way to a desolate battlefield. I now hold a super shotgun in my hands, the weight of the weapon familiar and comforting.
Images flash in my mind—a suit of armor, massive and orange, its design etched into my memory.
"The process has yet to be fully completed. You should feel some mental disorientation as you begin to finish taking shape," the voice explains.
I nod again. My movements feel slow, my body sluggish, but I understand.
A fiery portal materializes before me, and from it emerges an imp—a skeletal, red-eyed creature radiating malice. My blood begins to boil as I feel a stinging pain in my back.
"Guts… get its guts… kill…" The words echo in my mind, primal and unrelenting.
The imp screeches, leaping backward and hurling a ball of flame at me. I roll to the left, dodging the attack, and fire my heavy machine gun, blasting its left leg clean off. The creature crawls along the ground, desperate to escape.
Switching to my super shotgun, I fire a chain shot that hooks into its chest. The fiery chain pulls the imp toward me, and I grab its right arm, snapping it in half before stabbing the creature through the skull with its own bone.
Blood splatters across my face, but I feel nothing. The demon is dead. That is all that matters.
The darkness laughs—a deep, guttural sound that shakes the battlefield. I turn, gripping the crucible blade, prepared for another fight.
But the battlefield fades, replaced by an infinite void filled with the endless remains of the dead.
The voice speaks again, its words carving themselves into my very soul.
"It seems that I was successful. You shall be perfect. Against all the evil that the multiverse can conjure, all the wickedness that mortals can produce, I will send unto them… only you. Rip and tear, until it is done. This shall be your first test."
A portal opens beneath me, and as I fall through, I hear the screams of countless demons. Reloading my super shotgun, I blast a ghoul in front of me.
As the rest turn to face me, roaring with rage, I raise the crucible blade and hammer.
Rip and tear until it is done…
(Well ladies and gentlemen, a bare-bones essence of the doom slayer story This is mostly from a request that I've been repeatedly receiving for context, the doom slayer was essentially created from a culmination of multiple doom slayers at least pieces of him. Hades, the creator of the doom slayer is essentially trying to replicate him, but at a stronger level. This is probably going to be as far as I can go for now.)