Engulfed Continuance

Miles of stygian shores lead towards the true oceans of my once great planet, now reduced to a cinder.

Above me, scorched earth; smoke rises from the ground. This was all my fault with no intent. Nothing remains of my enemy. I am left alone at the bottom of a false ocean, surrounded by a burnt reminder of power gone awry. My own, my enemy’s. There can be no regret. To measure what has happened knowing not of what will… everything happens as it does… I hate time travel.

The past and future are where they should stay, ineffective to the present, but they never can be. They are all correlated, intertwined and interweaved into the very fabric of reality, no matter the plane. Time is the enemy as I drown without lungs.

I spend eternities under the water, alone, left with my thoughts of murder. There is no such escape as death for me. Seconds pass as centuries, centuries pass as seconds. I crave internally for it all to end as silt from the fallout of my ruined world entombs my immortal form. My limbs have long since returned to presence, but offer me no mobility; peace, nor piece, of mind.

The center of my brain drives towards slaughter, but I can offer no energy towards it. I am beyond drained, my powers… siphoned by the ravages of the endless passaging of time.; I sense new life evolving, growing above me. I am continually driven to death, of survival, but suppress the sinister urge, to wait. Why? I do not know. I merely allow the life to flourish on my forgotten, dead planet, for there is nothing else that I can do.

There will come a moment in that I will rise, in reclamation, for myself, Gravity Surge be damned to the Hellish dimension. Though, it is only because of it that I am privy to it. Perhaps that is why I despise my life eternal of power impossible. I want to rest, but it does not allow it, it does not end, it will not end for me until time itself ends. Then I will be left to finally die, alone, without purpose. Nothing is preordained. I think. I hope, for this path I follow, it is but a drive from beyond. If this is predetermined, my path, then when time does end, and I find who is responsible for my path, I will strangle the life out of them, and, in doing so, bring destruction to everything that ever was, is, could be, or will be. Then, if there is a next life, if time is cyclical, I will do it again in the next life, if only to see the blood flow from their eye sockets as I crush their throat once more. And I will do it not only because I am driven to do it, but I will revel in it.

… Blood and viscera of the mortals who challenge my own path I carve for myself of flesh and bone. Cracking, breaking. Destruction. Death is meaningless, and I will prove this, proof beyond life, beyond all who live, beyond all who die, all who have died by my hands. I will kill more, I will rise and kill again, of this there is no doubt.

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