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In the endless tapestry of life, there are threads mortals never see—realities layered atop each other, touching, yet forever apart. The plane of Myths is such a place: a realm where legends breathe, and monsters walk among gods. Here, among creatures older than memory, lived Michael Skull.
To call Michael a man was to stretch the word beyond its meaning. He was immortal—a true undying, born of a strange crimson fog. His form was a memory of flesh, capable of dissolving into mist or coalescing into terrifying shapes. He was not a myth by lineage, but by right. No blade could cut him, for he did not really exist, no poison could slow his endless pulse, for he had none. He was power incarnate, and for that, he was resented.
On the day of his exile, the court of Myths was a cathedral of silence. The Vampire King, ancient and regal, sat upon his throne of bone, flesh, blood, and obsidian. His voice, cold and sharp, sliced through the hush. "You are not one of us, Michael Skull. You never were. Power without purpose is a threat, and we have no place for threats."
Michael stood before the throne, silent. He could not fight the decree—no one could. The king's words stung sharper than any weapon. "What are you but a monster that should not exist? what are you except a beast to cage? The mortal realm will be your prison, and perhaps there you may learn what it means to be powerless."
He did not reply. There was no point. The council watched with ancient, indifferent eyes as the king raised his hand. A portal was torn open—a gash between worlds—and the crimson fog that was Michael Skull was drawn through, cast down into a place where legend had no meaning and immortality was a curse without end.
All Michael felt was pain. At that moment, he wished he told his mother, who cared for him when no one else would, that he told her he loved her one last time...
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