Rebirth

Agony.

Rage.

Hatred.

A cacophany of negative emotions clawed at Astaroth's soul like the tendrils of some eldritch monstrosity.

He could not see. He could not hear. The only physical sensation he could feel was pain.

The pain was unbearable; it was like his very essence was being ripped apart.

His very identity began to fade away. The pain was too much. His memory of himself gradually tore at the seams, and he began to forget.

*Why am I here?*

*What is happening to me*

*Who...who am I*

Astaroth's soul began to falter, flickering away like the light of a dying candle. The pain began to fade, replaced by a great emptiness that threatened to consume him. But at that moment, right before his very essence could be engulfed by the endless void, he remembered.

"I am a GOD."

His soul flared with a crimson light. Fiery tendrils sizzled into existence around him as it illuminated the great darkness around him.

Clarity returned to his mind, sharpened by a pure, unbridled rage.

"Treachery." Astaroth snarled as his memory returned in a ceaseless flood.

It was all coming back to him now. He was Astaroth, the dreaded conqueror who almost brought the world to heel. The one they called "The Tyrant of Sorcery."

He had everything in his grasp, but he was betrayed.

The light of his soul burned even brighter as his rage intensified.

"So this was my destiny all along....born and molded to be the greatest villain only to ultimately lose to Good. I never had a choice, much less a chance...."

Fate never intended to allow him to win. No matter how much power he amassed, no matter how resourceful, strategic or determined he was, by virtue of his birthright he was doomed to failure.

Good would always prevail. For that was how the story was written. In the end, his successes were merely set backs to what was always intended to be a failure.

But they had miscalculated. The weavers of Fate had overlooked one little detail.....

Astaroth sneered. They had underestimated him.

They had forgotten that he was programmed to always have a contingency, and that included...

Death.

Before he set about his final conquest, he had finally mastered the power of soul splicing. In other words, he was able to separate his physical body from the essence of his being. As long as his soul existed, he could not die. And unlike before....

The shackles of destiny had been removed, gone when his mortal body was destroyed. His soul returned to the nether, a space that existed outside the boundaries of space and time. He was now essentially fate-less, free to pursue whatever life he so wished.

Suddenly, the wracking pain returned, causing Asatroth's vision to blur with red.

*I don't have much time....I must....reincarnate quickly*

He mustered up every ounce of strength he had available, and forced his soul to shoot in a random direction like a crimson comet.

His soul traversed across the nether with blinding speed, soaring past a massive stretch of nothingness for what felt like forever.

However, just as he felt his soul reach the last dregs of its internal energy, he saw a dimensional rift appear amidst the pitch black horizon.

With the last of his might, he forced himself to streak in that direction, and in a moment's notice, he had disappeared inside.