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A neck was cleaved in a single, swift slash. The lifeless head flew, crashing into the dirt, blood splattering across the blood-soaked battlefield. Amidst the pile of corpses, a figure stepped forward, cloaked in a dark green aura. His eyes gleamed with a psychotic fervor, a twisted grin stretching across his face. He reveled in the carnage, intoxicated by the slaughter, his thoughts drifting back to how he'd come to be this unstoppable killing machine—just a normal man, now transformed into something more.

His heart raced with the adrenaline of battle, but as his gaze shifted across the fallen, he couldn't suppress the laughter rising within him. The power coursing through his veins felt limitless, like nothing in the world could stand against him.

Out of nowhere, two new opponents materialized, their weapons raised in attack, their eyes full of fury. Without hesitation, the green aura-clad man dodged with a speed that defied mortal comprehension. The clash of blades rang out as his enemies' strikes sliced through the air, but their blades never touched him. His movements were flawless, a dance of death, as he countered with brutal force.

The air was filled with the deafening sound of steel on steel as the man overpowered his foes. He wasn't just defending; he was dismantling them with terrifying precision. With a quick strike, the first opponent fell, his body crumpling to the ground, lifeless. The second barely had time to react before his throat was slashed open in one clean motion, sending him sprawling into the dirt, defeated.

The man stood over them, a psychotic smile playing across his lips. He was no longer just a man. He was an embodiment of death itself.

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Long ago, in an age where gods and mortals once coexisted in an unbroken bond, a decision was made-a decision that would forever alter the fate of both.

The gods, having observed the growing wisdom of humankind and their evolving self-reliance, decreed that their intervention was no longer necessary.

Humans, they believed, had learned to worship without the presence of their deities, their advancements in knowledge and power rendering divine interference obsolete.

Each god chose a mortal—a Gecoren—to maintain the balance of power and ensure that their divine influence remained distant, only felt in whispers through their selected heirs.

For many centuries, there was peace. Humanity prospered, and the gods watched, indifferent yet content.

But amidst this tranquility, one god stood apart—Aram, the god of Hell.

Aram knew the heart of man, and he understood the insatiable hunger for power that would ultimately lead to chaos.

Unlike the others, Aram refused to choose a mortal to bear even a sliver of his power.

To him, humans were not yet ready. He saw their greed, their lust for dominion, and he knew they would corrupt any gift of his.

And so, peace reigned, but only for a time.

When the Gecoren began to bicker over their power, their egos clashing like titans, the very peace that had once blessed the world began to fracture.

Greed consumed them, and war erupted among those meant to maintain balance.

The Gecoren turned on each other, killing and betraying, their thirst for absolute rule poisoning the Earth.

The gods, bound by their promise not to interfere, could do nothing. Yet in the depths of their own silent despair, one god—Aram—could no longer stand by.

He watched as his promise to remain distant led to the very chaos he feared.

With ruthless inevitability, Aram decided to intervene. Cruel, yes, but necessary. He could not allow the destruction of what remained of the world's order.

Aram, unlike the others, did not merely bestow power upon his Gecoren.

He crafted a weapon with his own hands—a blade of malachite, forged in the deepest fires of Hell, its edge formed from the very soul of his essence.

The Malachor Blade, as it would come to be known, was not just a weapon. It was a living thing, imbued with the strength and wrath of Aram himself.

The Gecoren was unlike the others—fierce, relentless, and unyielding. He wielded the Malachor Blade with unmatched might, defeating the other Gecoren in brutal combat, each victory more decisive than the last.

But Aram, wise and cautious, knew that even the strongest of mortals could not wield such power without consequence.

Fearful of the potential destruction the blade could bring, Aram bound his Gecoren's soul, keeping him imprisoned within the blade itself.

The Malachor Blade was sealed in a forgotten land, shrouded in mystery, where it would remain hidden and untouched until the time came for balance to be restored.

And so, peace was once again achieved. The gods' promise was upheld. Humanity, freed from divine influence, would now live on without fear of uncontested power, and the chaos of the Gecoren would be nothing but a forgotten tale.

But the seal, though strong, would not last forever. Power, once tasted, cannot be erased entirely. And the time for balance... may come again.