He was once a warlord - a general of flesh and fire.
Now, he is death made divine.
There was a time when The Death Lord stood among the living. A child born into poison skies and corpse-choked soil. Raised in decay. Hardened in the fumes of unending death. Where others withered, he grew strong. Where others died, he endured. He breathed in plague like incense, drank contagion like wine, and bathed in the filth of dead empires.
He learned early: purity is a lie. Strength lies not in resisting the rot - but in embracing it.
And when the great war came, he did not flinch. While others begged for salvation, he offered himself to decay. The god of rot, ever watchful, accepted. Flesh bloated. Armor cracked. Inside his lungs, a thousand flies were born. He did not die. He ascended.
Now, he walks the battlefield as a towering plague saint, dragging a war-scythe too heavy for mortal hands, each swing clearing life like chaff. His cloak is a banner of pestilence. His voice is a buzzing dirge. Where he walks, crops fail, walls crumble, and hope rots from the root.
He is not the end. He is what comes after.
Do not fear the end. Serve it.
Spread the filth. Build your plague legion. Watch the stars wither.
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