Jackson Cade, Felix Foley, El Mariachi Muerte…

Three men, each with their own brand of conviction, each convinced that they are the one to put an end to Conquest.

I will even help you.

Jackson Cade.

A broken man swinging his power like a crowbar, desperate to pry open something—anything—that will make him feel whole again.

You crush bones and shatter wills, but you lack the patience to finish the job. You’re all brute force, barely-contained rage. You fight like a man trying to break a door off its hinges when all you had to do was turn the handle.

If you want to destroy me, you need to learn restraint. Learn precision. But you won’t, will you? Because when the red mist rises, when your heartbeat pounds in your ears like war drums, you won’t think. You’ll swing that crowbar, and you’ll miss the mark.

And I will smile.

Felix Foley.

A riddle wrapped in an enigma, a man who doesn’t even know himself, yet thinks he can unravel me. You play at being harmless, a fool with a painted-on grin, but I see you. I see the cracks. You want to burn everything down just to see if the ashes will whisper your name back to you.

You could destroy me, Felix. If you let go. If you embraced the madness clawing at the edge of your mind instead of wearing it like a cheap costume. But you won’t. You’ll hold onto the lie. You’ll tell yourself that you’re better than the darkness. That you can wield it without becoming it.

And so, you will fail.

El Mariachi Muerte.

A zealot. A priest of the damned who sings the gospel of death, convinced he alone knows the path to salvation. You stand at the altar, whispering of judgment, believing that when the music stops, it will be your hand that pulls the final string.

You want to end me, Muerte? You’ll need to be more than a messenger. You’ll need to become the thing you pretend to be. A reaper does not weep for the fields he harvests. A god does not beg his congregation to listen. You ask the world to heed your words when you should be carving them into the walls.

But you won’t. Because you are not the god you claim to be.

You’re just another believer.

And that is why all three of you will fail.

You cannot finish me.

Not because you lack the strength. Not because you lack the will.

But because I endure.

Jackson Cade—your crowbar will break before my bones do.

Felix Foley—your riddle has no answer.

El Mariachi Muerte—your song has no final note.

You can carve into me, you can break me, you can try to end me. But I am not what you destroy.

I am what survives.

Because when the pain sets in, when the walls close around you, when all you have left is the agony of knowing you were not enough—

You will embrace the pain. You will embrace the Grimskull.