The starfield hung silent and vast outside the viewport, a cold, indifferent witness to endless slaughter. Maraak's ship, a relic from an ancient war, hurtled through space, its hull scarred with remnants of battles that had become myth. Inside, the lights flickered as he got ready to fall. Before long, the red, shattered globe of Nithrax-7, engulfed in dust storms and flaming inferno, was visible. It was a planet abandoned to decay and populated by creatures that were in opposition to the laws of nature.
Maraak tightened the straps of his Armor, a black, obsidian outfit woven with warriors' souls. Veilsunder, the sword that had been his sole real friend for more time than he could recall, was by his side. The weapon's surface was carved with glyphs that appeared to bend and reconfigure like fog trapped in metal, and it pulsed with an unsettling light. In its own perverse form, Veilsunder was alive and was pleading with him to give it more souls.
"Feed me, Maraak," it hissed in a voice that felt both inside his head and outside, echoing through the ship's empty corridors. "So many souls to take. So much power to claim."
"Patience," he murmured, fingers tightening around the weapon's hilt. The thrill of the hunt was rising within him. Every kill, every life he extinguished, would bring him closer to the apex of his strength. It was the only thing that kept him moving, the endless cycle of slaughter that had become both curse and purpose.
As the ship tore through the planet's atmosphere, the roar of the descent filled the cabin. Through the viewport, Maraak could see the wasteland below: barren plains littered with ancient ruins, the wreckage of ships from a war that had torn the galaxy apart centuries ago. Nithrax-7 had once been a thriving world, a hub of civilization. Now it was a hunting ground for the Blood Eternal, a proving ground for those who were strong enough to survive.
The landing was rough, jarring him forward as the ship's landing gear scraped against the cracked, red soil. Maraak stepped out onto the desolate landscape, the stale, metallic taste of the air filling his lungs. In the distance, he could see shadows moving, creatures twisted and deformed by the planet's corruption. The Blood Eternal had called him here for a reason: to silence the last resistance faction hiding in the wastelands, a cult of zealots worshipping an ancient, chaos-infused deity.
The cultists were known for their brutal methods and their monstrous allies, and Maraak relished the thought of cutting through them. Veilsunder trembled in his hand, eager, its hunger sharpening his own.
He started forward, boots crunching over the brittle ground. At the edges of his vision, shadows flashed, and shapes poured in and out of the dust storms racing across the landscape. The air was heavy with the stench of rot and blood, and distant beasts howled softly.
He was spared a long wait. A troop of cultists emerged from the dust, their bodies covered in torn robes and Armor ornamented with insignia painted in their own blood. Their eyes burning with belief fever, they screamed a war cry and raced forward with crude weapons when they saw him.
Maraak grinned with delight. He raised Veilsunder, feeling the sword throb with anticipation.
The first cultist lunged at him with a rusted axe. Veilsunder fell in a wide arc as Maraak easily sidestepped the blow. The cultist's body split in two, blood splattering on the parched ground as the blade tore through Armor and flesh. Its runes burned a terrible crimson glare as Veilsunder devoured it.
Unfazed by their colleague's terrible demise, more cultists surrounded them. Maraak's blade sliced through them like a shadow, a tornado of devastation. Each blow was deadly, each wound designed to cause the most suffering and destruction. Veilsunder's whispers became louder, and a chorus of voices—souls trapped inside the blade—screamed, laughed, and encouraged him.
Emerging from the crowd with a jagged spear was a cult leader dressed in heavier Armor. The weird light burning in his eyes was a mark of the chaos deity he worshipped. The leader shouted and aimed his spear at Maraak, as the remaining cultists gathered around him.
His voice was high as he growled. "You dare trespass on holy ground, Blood Reaver!" he spat out. "Voraak will feast on your soul!"
Maraak remained silent. The dead had no use for words. Rather, he moved forward, his eyes fixed on the cult leader, all of his strength directed toward the kill. The cultists rushed him, but he cut them down with ruthless efficiency, their bodies piling up around him in a mess of gore and twisted limbs.
The cult leader bellowed and lunged, his spear aimed straight for Maraak's heart. Maraak twisted to the side, grabbing the spear's shaft and yanking the leader forward, off-balance. With a swift movement, he drove Veilsunder into the man's chest, the blade sinking deep, drinking in the man's life force. The leader's eyes widened in shock, his strength fading as Veilsunder consumed him from the inside out.
As the cult leader's body fell to the ground, drained and lifeless, Maraak felt a surge of power rush through him, the essence of the kill flowing into his veins. Veilsunder pulsed, its hunger momentarily sated, its whispers fading to a murmur.
The other cultists had halted around him, gaping at their dead leader in terror. Their eyes flashed with horror as they hesitated. Maraak lifted his blood-stained blade and stepped forward, growling low and deadly. The cultists broke and ran into the bush, their cries echoing through the desolate landscape.
He watched them go, knowing they wouldn't be going far. The world of Nithrax-7 was a horrible place with no way out. The animals that prowled the world would kill them before they reached the ruins on the horizon.
When the last of the cultists had departed, Maraak sheathed Veilsunder and surveyed the devastation. That he had done what he was told and cleared this deserted world of heretics would make the Blood Eternal proud. But standing there among the remains of the dead, he felt a familiar emptiness that no amount of violence could satisfy.
The whispers began again, faint and insistent.
"More, Maraak… More…"
He turned his gaze to the distant mountains, where dark shapes moved against the crimson sky. There were more enemies out there, more souls to harvest, more blood to spill. And he would keep going, keep killing, until the emptiness was drowned in a tide of blood.
Without a backward glance, Maraak began to walk, his shadow stretching long and dark across the blood-soaked ground. Nithrax-7 was just the beginning.