In an expanse of darkness that stretched beyond the reaches of time and space, where laws were meaningless and mortality was nothing more than a death sentence, two figures could be seen, clashing.
On one side stood a tall and looming entity, neither male nor female but rather a beautiful and perfect androgynous blend of the two.
The figure wore dark robes—darker than the expanse around them—as long, flaming, dark purple hair cascaded down broad shoulders like an infernal river of amethyst.
Its skin was a pale jade white, and its pupils pulsed with a soft, ethereal emerald light—charming, yet deadly in its allure.
The entity was… breathtaking. And as it waved its hand, sending seas of seemingly liquid fire hurling forward, a light smile hung on its lips—soft, tantalizing.
On the other side stood a man. He, unlike the entity, was broken beyond words.
His healthy, beige yet sun-kissed skin had become nothing more than a canvas of crimson. His once-toned, endlessly refined body now stood as a tapestry of spilled blood, ruptured veins, and flesh left agape. His aura, once an inferno of life and majesty, now flickered like a struggling candle in the dead of winter.
His long, wild, mane-like black hair clung to his back like glue, matted by the blood and sweat that poured down his once-esteemed figure.
Yet his amethyst pupils remained indifferent.
'Another failure,' the man calmly thought, ignoring the world-sized seas of fire that came crashing down on him.
He chuckled and looked down at his hands—his palms, more specifically, and the seemingly endless scars and calluses etched upon them.
Years of relentless work. An entire life of dedication—turned to a worthless endeavor.
'Failure,' the man chuckled, as the thought echoed endlessly in his mind.
Then, he shook his head but, as if unable to contain it, burst out laughing. His laugh was so wild and untamed that it left the expanse around them shaking.
He whipped his head back, his jaw unclenching and his body trembling as he released a wild laugh—one that came from the depths of his soul. A laugh rooted in pure madness.
Even as the seas of fire fell upon him—melting his robes, charring his skin, rendering him little more than a figure of coal—he seemed unfazed.
He continued to laugh, the light in his eyes intensifying with each breath. The joy surging through him entirely overshadowed the pain of his collapsing soul and the decay of his flesh.
Failure—this was the only word that could define Samael's life. Or rather, lives. He had lived one hundred and seven lives. And in all of them, he had failed to reach his desired zenith… one hundred and seven times.
Each life had transcended the previous by margins unfathomable to mortals. Each life had contained countless more hours of relentless work and ruthless training, and yet… the result remained the same.
In the end, he always failed—and died at their hands. The hands of the Chosen Great Emperors.
Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely accurate.
WHOOOOSH!
The seas of fire fully consumed Samael's figure, sticking to him like sludge. The sickening sound of sizzling flesh filled the void, and the disgusting stench of burning meat wafted through the air.
Through the layers that covered him, he smiled—his face now akin to a demonic painting.
"You know," he began, "scholars often speculate on the true nature of the immortality we gain."
"What is it, really? A change—from one state to another. Often, we depict it as a process of liberation. Freedom from the shackles of time and death."
His grin widened.
"Yet is it truly so?"
"Could you kill yourself? Render your own immortality null?"
The entity standing in the distance frowned, a strange sense of foreboding rising within them. There had always been rumors—the Mad Emperor always had a trump card. But it had been days already. Surely, Samael had no more tricks left.
So why… were they feeling so restless?
"These same scholars," Samael continued, "speculate that immortality takes root in the very essence of life—survival. Our immortal essence rejects the commands of our Will and instead clings to our most primal instinct: to live."
"Countless emperors have tried to test it. The result has always been the same… immortals cannot kill themselves."
"They do not possess the will to do so."
Samael's grin twisted, dark and unnatural.
"Do you think I'm the same?"
"Shall we see?"
He raised a charred, sludge-covered finger to his temple, pressing it as if it were a blade.
"Should I do it? Do you think I could? Should I transcend my own immortality? Dare me. Please. I beg of you."
The entity's lips parted to speak, but Samael cut it off.
"Oh? Yes? Please? Do you dare me? Yes—it must be so."
And before the entity could react… Samael's entire hand pierced through his skull.
In an instant, the light faded from his eyes. His soul collapsed, and his body went limp.
An Immortal had Willed his own death—True Death.
He began to fall into the depths of the endless expanse of darkness. But as he fell, runes began to form across his lips—still frozen in a grin.
His lips quivered, and even as a dead man… he spoke.
No—more importantly, he cast a spell.
"…[Equivalence: Mirrored Origin]…."
The entity's eyes widened in horror. Shock. Rage. Unwillingness. All emotions flashed through its soul before it… collapsed.
The entity died, in the same manner Samael had. The spell had reflected all damage inflicted upon Samael onto them. And what could death reflect, if not death?
Its body fell alongside Samael's. Even in death, Samael's corpse began to madly cackle and laugh, his twisted laughter vanishing into the deepest reaches of the void.
His laughter echoed like a mad hymn.
In what world would he—The Mad Emperor—ever kill himself out of despair before an enemy? Because he had been cornered? Because he was weaker?
None were worthy.
And so, The Mad Emperor's one hundred and seventh life came to an end.
And in the next breath… the next began.
The cycle was eternal.
'This time… I'll succeed.'