The wind continued its passage through the trees. The world kept turning, broken and beautiful in equal measure.
Nero had seen death and corruption and horror beyond what most people could imagine. He'd killed and consumed and transformed into something that wasn't human anymore. He'd lost his home, his friends, and any semblance of a normal life.
But he was still here. Still breathing. Still capable of looking at wildflowers and wondering about the ocean.
He opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. The Mark of Mephistopheles stood out on his left hand.
These hands had killed. They'd torn through corrupted flesh and driven blades into hearts and skulls. They'd been covered in blood more times than he could count.
But they were still his hands.
He was still Nero, even if he was also becoming Armageddon.
