Elite Pain, known in the underworld as the "Sorrow-Maker," cracked his neck. His armor was a lattice of jagged obsidian, each shard etched with a name—the name of every opponent who had screamed before him. His weapon, a barbed whip named Lament , hummed with a low, hungry frequency.
The bell chimed again. Is that all?
He moved first—a blur of black and crimson. Lament arced through the air, screaming like a damned soul. It wrapped around 3l’s extended forearm.
Elite Pain tried to pull Lament free for a third strike—the killing stroke. But the whip was no longer his. The names carved into his armor began to glow, one by one, and then scream . Each victim’s final moment of agony reversed its polarity and flooded back into him.
3l stood over the twitching, weeping husk that had been Elite Pain. The hall was silent except for the drip of ichor and the fading echo of the bell.
But 3l did not flinch.
