Forsaken Warrior 1 80 Part 14 -- Walkthrough / No Commentary

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The Shadow That Walks Blightmaul no longer remembered his name. The echoes of his past-his human life, his Forsaken purpose-had dissolved into the endless void of shadow that now defined him. He was not a man, not even an undead warrior. He had become something else, something far worse. The land around him mirrored his transformation. The jagged cliffs of Khaz Algar seemed to bow in his presence, their sharp edges weeping rivers of liquid shadow that pooled around his feet. The storms above him churned endlessly, green lightning flashing like the heartbeat of a dying god. He was alone, but not lonely. The blade, now fused with his very essence, whispered to him in a language only he could understand. It did not guide him-it commanded him. And he obeyed. The Hollow King Blightmaul had no need for food or rest. His body, warped and hollow, was sustained entirely by the dark power that coursed through him. His armor had fused with his flesh, jagged spikes of blackened steel jutting from his shoulders and arms. His face was a ruin of cracked bone and shadow, his eyes glowing with the sickly green light of his unholy purpose. He walked through a valley of petrified trees, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal hands. The air was thick with ash and silence, broken only by the sound of his footsteps. Creatures that should not exist emerged from the darkness to challenge him-monstrous things made of shadow and bone. They fell before him, one by one. His blade moved like a living thing, slicing through their forms as if cutting through smoke. But each time they fell, their essence was drawn into him, their screams merging with the chorus of whispers in his mind. “You are the shadow,” the voices chanted. “You are the end.” The Gathering of the Broken As Blightmaul pressed deeper into Khaz Algar, he began to attract followers-creatures that had once been mortal, their bodies twisted and broken by the land’s corrupting influence. They crawled from the shadows, their eyes filled with a strange reverence, and fell to their knees before him. They called him “the Hollow King.” Blightmaul did not speak to them. He did not need to. His presence alone was enough to command them. They followed him through the desolate lands, their forms shifting and writhing like living shadows. One of them, a figure that might have once been an orc, dared to approach him. Its voice was a rasp, barely audible. “Will you lead us to salvation?” Blightmaul turned, his glowing eyes fixing on the creature. For a moment, he considered the question, the echoes of his lost humanity stirring somewhere deep within him. But then the blade pulsed in his hand, its shadows curling around his arm. “There is no salvation,” he said, his voice a hollow echo. “Only the shadow.” The orc-thing fell silent, bowing its head. The Monolith’s Will At last, Blightmaul came to the great monolith that stood at the heart of Khaz Algar. Its surface rippled like liquid shadow, and its towering form seemed to hum with a deep, resonant energy. The air around it was alive with whispers, countless voices calling to him, urging him forward. He approached the monolith, his blade raised. The shadows that surrounded him surged toward it, merging with its form until he could no longer tell where the monolith ended and the void began. “You are ready,” the voices said. “Become.” Blightmaul stepped into the monolith. The shadows consumed him, pulling him into a realm of absolute darkness. His body dissolved, his essence unraveling, until there was nothing left but the blade and the whispers. The Shadow Unbound When Blightmaul emerged, he was no longer a being of flesh and bone. He was shadow incarnate, a formless entity that moved like smoke and struck like a storm. His blade had fused with his essence, its edge slicing through reality itself. The land trembled beneath him, its corrupted creatures falling to their knees in worship or fleeing in terror. The storms above parted, revealing a sky that burned with green fire, as if the very fabric of the world was reacting to his presence. Blightmaul had no thoughts of conquest or revenge. He had no purpose beyond the will of the blade, the whispers that had shaped him into this monstrosity. He was the shadow that walked, the end that came for all things. And as he looked out over the broken expanse of Khaz Algar, he felt nothing. Nothing but the endless hunger of the void.