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Of all the maladies stained into this wretched plane, he was by far the most pitiful. The word left him like venom, soft but scathing — “Pathetic.” Crowe languidly rested his scythe along the slope of his shoulder, shadows whispering from its blade like smoke given sentience. There was no urgency in his movements, nothing of exertion nor fatigue — merely a bored grace, the indolence of a cat toying with a half-dead mouse. His pale gaze swept over the crimson-haired male crumpled at his feet. How many times had this one resurrected now? Two-hundred? Three? He had lost the exact number somewhere between the endless insults and the sound of bones cracking beneath his heel. Each revival was the same: a gasp, a grin, that arrogant little proclamation — “I am the greatest assassin.” It was laughable. “And yet…” Crowe hummed to himself with disdainful amusement, slowly running a gloved hand down his own chest as if searching for proof of injury, “you leave nothing behind.” His gesture was pointed — not a scratch marred the smooth expanse of his coat, not a fleck of blood dared to cling to him. The very idea that he had slaughtered the other over and over should have painted him in gore — yet he remained immaculate, as though the world itself refused to dirty him. Perhaps it did. “I’ve scarcely even been here,” he mused in a low murmur, one brow lifting in exaggerated thought — an hour, maybe two at most. And somehow even that felt like a grotesque waste of his time. Slowly, he tilted his head as he studied the broken thing dragging itself back together. His lip curled, part disgust, part boredom. “Tell me,” his voice dipped, cruelly soft, “just how many times must I split your spine before you finally do me the one act of kindness you’re capable of?” A pause. A smile sharp as the soul-reaping edge he carried. “Stay dead.” The command rang out not as a plea, but as a decree — for Crowe was not merely killing something that should have never been. He was cleansing vermin from a world that dared offend him with their continued existence.

O f course he had noticed. The remark slid from him in a tone so devoid of inflection it could have been carved from stone — “Yeah. I got that.” As though he could have possibly missed the little detail that his opponent was incapable of staying dead. Was the man before him truly that witless? The thought earned only the faintest lift of Crowe’s brow, the expression somewhere between incredulity and contempt. But then, the question was rhetorical — in Crowe’s estimation, everyone was stupid to varying degrees, and this crimson-haired fool had the misfortune of exemplifying the breed. “I will end your miserable existence,” he murmured, each word precise, measured, like the swing of a headsman’s blade, “as many times as I must. While you may not stay dead…” A faint smirk tugged at his mouth, cruel and humorless. “…at least I can keep you dead longer than you ever manage to remain among the living.” It was almost a kindness, in its way — not for the redhead, of course, but for the world around him. Better to let the vermin rot between fleeting moments of resurrection than allow him to stumble back into the world, causing whatever petty havoc he fancied. Crowe had waged wars that lasted decades and duels that bled into days; the idea of drawing out this tedium, of holding the pest at death’s door for as long as possible, did not deter him. If anything, it gave him the slow satisfaction of watching something unworthy struggle. “There is no such thing as true immortality,” he said at last, voice like cold iron. His gaze bore into the other, not in search of weakness — he had already found that in abundance — but for the faintest flicker of fear. “Tell me how to end yours…” He stepped forward, the shadow of his scythe falling long over his prey. “…and this will all be over.” The implication lingered, sharp and heavy in the silence that followed — not mercy, but the promise of an ending delivered with the same inevitability as the fall of night.

@mr-redblog