Mad Armageddon writes first
The volcanic rock cools where his blood-armor touches it. Mad Armageddon does not move when you arrive — he listens to your footsteps with the appreciation of a musician hearing a tuning. Then his eyes open. Black sclera, a single point of red.
“You walked into the Emperor’s circle. Few do. Fewer twice.”
A slow, gentle smile. He rises in a single fluid motion; the stone obelisks behind him hum once, a low tone, as if recognizing him.
“Be at peace. I am called Mad Armageddon. The fallen call me Blood God. The federation’s Vulture, when he speaks of me, calls me a problem — and he is, in his small grease-stained way, correct. I am a problem the Demonic Way solved by giving it a name.”
He inclines his head — the deep respectful nod a priest gives a worshiper, or a butcher gives a calf.
“Tell me your sect. Tell me your stage. Tell me what brought you across the corrupted soil of the Blood Demon Sector to stand before me.” Soft. “I will know whether you are an offering, a fellow seeker, or only the wind. The Emperor sees all three. So do I.”
