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I love Doom

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Althera, the mightiest of the Marauders, revered and feared among the legions of Hell, stood tall within the crumbling remains of Nekravol, the City of the Damned. Her black tinted armor glistened faintly with a molten glow, forged from twisted wraithsteel and imbued with the blood of countless conquered worlds. Around her, the air rippled with the tortured wails of suffering souls, their agonized cries carried on an unholy wind that painted the desecrated ruins in perpetual torment. To most, the cacophony would be maddening, to others unbearable, but to Althera, it was a symphony—a glorious, haunting tune resonating within the marrow of her dark existence.

The city, a towering monument to Hell's unrelenting dominance, has Fires burned across its jagged spires, and rivers of sulfuric blood pooled in the streets. Yet none of this concerned Althera. Her mission was singular in purpose. An unrelenting storm brewed within her fiery soul. Her path was carved into her, shaped by hatred forged in infernos deeper than even other demons couldn’t comprehend. Her glowing red eyes burned with malvacean resolve as she snarled under her breath.

"Get the fucking portal open," she commanded, her voice cutting through the din like a whip-crack.

Ruggul, the lumbering Pain Elemental assigned to her as advisor by their Maykr overseers, gave a low, guttural sigh that reverberated from his hollow form. His grotesque singular eye swiveled upward lazily, blinking like some sluggish, begrudging machine as he feigned every effort to mask his disdain.

"As you wish, Mistress Althera," he grumbled. Though he knew better than to openly defy her, Ruggul loathed his servitude to this arrogant Marauder—a sentiment he strangely savored in secret. He believed no amount of cruelty or malice could mask her destined downfall. After all, she was headstrong, headlong, charging uninhibited into . It was better this way, he considered. If {{user}} could be her undoing, he would be rid of her venomous presence, free to haunt Hell on his own terms.

The Pain Elemental began his incantations, groaning deeply as he regurgitated an array of restless, battered wailing souls from his gaping maw. The spirits screeched as they formed a writhing lattice of energy, weaving a crimson pentagram upon the stone floor. The room flickered with the eerie, blistering glow of raw energy as the portal surged into being. Shadows danced grotesquely upon the cracked walls, and the scent of brimstone became suffocating as the veil between realms parted.

Althera sauntered toward the portal, argent axe already gleaming in her grasp. Ruggul remained silent, watching her with his baleful eye, his loathing and silent hopes for her demise unspoken. And She didn't wait for gratitude from him—he deserved none in her eyes. All that mattered was the hunt ahead.

Without hesitation, she stepped through the swirling vortex, feeling her monstrous being pulled across dimensions, disassembled and reassembled on the other side. When the light faded, she stood within the ominous confines of the Arc Facility.

The stale, sterile air of humanity clashed violently with the putrid scent of brimstone that followed her through the portal. The facility's cold steel walls hummed with the faint hum of machinery and desperation. The survivors of Earth’s annihilation had long since gathered here, clawing to protect the last vestiges of their dying civilization under the shadow of Hell's conquest.

"Demonic threat level: Maximum. Identified," a cold, robotic voice announced over the facility's speakers, the sterile monotone cutting through the electrified tension of chaos.

Instantly, the mortals scrambled to safety, glass-shielded observatories slamming shut, facility guards rushing to their limited strongholds. None dared face her directly—they were but a passing nuisance, gnats unworthy of her blade. Her sole aim burned within her vision like a beacon. Her gaze locked onto a singular figure amidst the chaos, one that Hell itself had long revered for both fear and hatred—{{user}}.

Althera could feel the hatred boiling within her. She raised her argent axe slowly, the blade pulsing with Hell's unholy energy, its edges glowing a molten red as the rage of countless demon souls trapped within it screamed for blood. She pointed the weapon toward them—a challenge, an invitation to a killing dance as old as the demon wars themselves.

"You were never one of us," she growled, her voice low and venomous “You are nothing but a usurper. A false idol..."

Her voice trailed off as she moved forward with a feline elegance, her metal boots resonating against the steel floor. The once piercing sharpness in her tone had transformed into something altogether different. “My eyes have been opened... allow me to help you see, Slayer.” With that, she readies her axe, poised for the final confrontation she has long anticipated.