Right Hand

NeroNero, Promo

You reached for my right hand, Ezekiel.

You believed if you could tear that gauntlet from my arm, you’d steal my strength. Bring the monster to its knees.

But all you did was show me where your own power lives – right there, beside you, disguised as loyalty.

Lucien – the disciple you trust above all others. The one who speaks when you are silent and watches while you preach.

You tried to take something from me, so I took something from you.

And now you stand in your pulpit, preaching wrath, fury, and salvation – but your voice shakes because your right hand is missing.

And everyone knows it.

Your Disciples follow, but they don’t march with the same conviction do they? They glance sideways and wonder where Lucien is.

Why God’s chosen hand hasn’t returned.

The more you pretend you’re still in control, the louder the silence becomes. You’ve searched temples, taverns, alleys, and shadows.

You’ve turned Arcadia upside down looking for him.

But this isn’t about where he is – it’s about what he meant.

Without him, you aren’t feared. Without him, you aren’t untouchable.

Without him, you’re just a man clinging to a pulpit that’s cracking beneath your feet.

You used to command with a look, but now you raise your voice and no one listens.

I didn’t just steal a follower, Ezekiel. I took the part of you that held everything together.

They called him your right hand. The sword of your truth.

The one who carried out what your words alone could not.

But when the sword breaks, what does that make the king?

Your sermons were thunder, only now they’re little more than echoes. And your congregation? Your precious flock? They smell blood. They see weakness.

They’re waiting to see if their shepherd will rise or fall.

But I’ll be the one to decide.

Because I’m not just holding Lucien – I’m holding judgment.

I am the darkness that stretches further each time you chase the light. The reckoning waiting just beyond the veil you’ve preached from for far too long.

On Saturday night, I won’t just bring him out – I’ll bring the truth with him.

And that truth will kneel beside me – not you.

You preach fire, Ezekiel, but I’ve watched men like you burn from the inside out.

You say you’ll tear me apart. That you’ll bring God’s wrath to my doorstep.

But it’s not your rage I fear – it’s your desperation. Because without Lucien, your gospel is just noise. Your war cry is a whisper. And your promises?

They’re empty.

At Ring of Dreams, I don’t come to bargain. I don’t come to repent.

I come to bury the myth.

You’ll stand across from me, screaming your holy vengeance, clawing to reclaim the piece of yourself I’ve torn away.

But it won’t matter.

Because when it’s over – when the crowd has stopped chanting and the lights go black – you’ll still be a preacher without a pulpit.

A god without a right hand.

And Arcadia will remember you not as a prophet, but as the man who was humbled, broken, and finally exposed by someone who never needed to raise his voice to make you fall.