Grimskull stands at an altar in what little remains of the Third Eye compound.

“Pain is your craft, isn’t it? Gravedigger. Hatchet. Narcissa. Each of you has a different way of tearing flesh, of splintering bone, of unmaking the will to fight.

Bones grind as the Dark Spectre leans forward.

“Gravedigger, the new Ferryman, you’ll start with precision. Swing that shovel like a guillotine, like you did to poor Ezra. Crush my ribs, shatter my spine. You’ll drag me to the edge of your freshly dug hole, and you’ll take your time. Because that’s what you do—death isn’t a moment for you; it’s a process.

But here’s where you fail: I want the shovel to fall. I want to feel my bones turn to dust under your weight. And when I crawl out, denying you another soul, you’ll see—your precision is useless against someone already dead inside.”

He moves forward, his voice growing harsher.

“And Hatchet? You don’t care about precision. You just want to see the blood spray, don’t you? You’ll take a baseball bat, maybe a crowbar, or whatever sharp, blunt, grotesque weapon you can get your hands on. You’ll go for chaos—bash my head, carve my flesh, revel in the brutality. You’ll laugh as the pain spills out, as the wounds you create gape and scream.

But that’s the problem with chaos—it burns hot, but it burns out. The harder you swing, the less it matters. You’ll put everything into hurting me, and I’ll still be standing, grinning, because there’s nothing you can do to me that I haven’t already done to myself.”

Grimskull’s purple eyes flash.

“And then there’s you, Narcissa. You don’t care about the physical so much. You’re slow, deliberate, like a spider pulling its prey into the web. You’ll whisper words designed to crush my spirit, to make me question every part of myself. And when that doesn’t work, you’ll use your hands—your elegant, calculated hands—to inflict pain that lingers.

But Narcissa, the irony is this: I am already your masterpiece. I am the suffering you dream of creating. You won’t carve anything into me that isn’t already there. You’ll only expose what I’ve been all along—a monument to pain, standing tall while your needles bend and break.”

The altar crumbles under his grasp, obscuring his vision.

“You’ll all try, in your own ways. And I’ll let you. I’ll welcome it. I’ll beg for it. Because the truth is, I don’t fight to avoid pain—I fight to feel it. To revel in it. To become it.

And when it’s over—when you’ve given me everything you’ve got and I’m still standing, still breathing, still laughing—you’ll realize the truth. Pain isn’t the craft you wield against me. It’s a gift I take from you.”

His voice drops to a venomous whisper.

“So bring your shovels, your chains, your needles. Try to break me, unmake me. But when you’re done, all that will remain is your failure… and me, still standing…

Because I’m not what you destroy. I’m what survives.”