They say the dead need a guide. A ferryman to carry them across the river, someone to hold the oar steady while the world slips away behind them. That’s the story, right? The myth. The sacred rite.

But myths rot. Stories unravel. And when the boat keeps drifting long after the song is over—when the oar moves, but the water no longer parts—what’s left isn’t a guide.

It’s just an empty vessel.

That’s what you’ve become, Gravedigger.

Not a reaper. Not a Valkyrie. Not the Ferryman.

Just a man stuck inside someone else’s ritual, rowing through waters that no longer recognize you.

You still wear the chains like they mean something. You drag them behind you like a prophet dragging scripture, convinced that if you carry the weight long enough, the meaning will return.

But meaning doesn’t come back. Not when it dies with the one who gave it.

Igor Mortis is gone. Ripped from the world by Tombstone’s hand—cut out like the cancer he was, or maybe like the heart you never knew was beating inside your chest. You didn’t just lose your benefactor. You lost your voice, your myth, your map.

Now you keep moving because you’re afraid to stop. Because if you stop, you’ll feel it.

The hollow.

You weren’t chosen. You were made. Forged by another man’s will and handed a title you’ve been clinging to like driftwood in a black tide.

And now you’re adrift.

You’re not guiding the dead anymore, Gravedigger. You’re begging them to stay in the boat.

You swing the oar like it’s still a weapon, scream the rites like they still echo—but no one’s listening. Not even the river.

I’ve watched you.

Trying to outrun the silence. Trying to hit hard enough to hear purpose again.

But the truth is, you don’t hear anything anymore.

Because you’re not the one crossing the river.

You’re the one being carried.

And that’s where we differ.

You were given power. Chains bestowed. Titles inherited. A role scripted for you before you ever bled for it.

Me? I earned every inch of ruin carved into my body.

I was burned out of my name. The Third Eye melted the man I was into ruin. No gods guided me. No saints forged me. I wasn’t chosen.

I survived.

You were forged in ceremony. I was forged in consequence.

There’s a difference between being made—and being left behind.

So no—I’m not here to challenge your legend.

I’m here to tear it apart.

Because I’m what comes when the river dries up and the boat cracks.

I’m not a soul waiting to be ferried. I’m the one dragging the riverbed, clawing through the bones, looking for something that can’t be saved.

You, wearing chains like they’ll protect you. Me, wearing scars that don’t heal.

You, rowing a vessel with nothing left inside. Me, standing in the shallows, waiting for the weight to finally pull you under.

Because it will.

It always does.

You’re not the Ferryman.

You’re not the Valkyrie.

You’re just an empty vessel, and empty vessels don’t get remembered.

They get replaced.