The Scales of the Almighty

Reverend Ezekiel GravesEzekiel Graves, Promo

{The cathedral looms broken—its glass a mosaic of ruin, the altar a shattered relic of forgotten grace. A lone torch glows beside Reverend Ezekiel Graves, its light tracing the hard lines of his face—still, resolute, a judge in shadow. He holds a sword, its blade a quiet gleam, and his voice emerges, measured, carrying the weight of a verdict long written.}

“No forge spares the iron. No hand stays the flame. A blade is made through trial scoured by fire, shaped by unyielding will, until it serves a purpose beyond mercy’s reach.”

{He lifts the sword, steady, its edge catching the torch’s flicker, his eyes unwavering as they sweep the dark.}

“I am that purpose. Chosen by the Almighty, set apart to scour this earth of its stains. I walk among you sinners, souls adrift—not to merely conquer, but to cleanse. The Invasion draws near, and I am His answer.”

{He steps into the dimness, glass cracking beneath his tread, each word a stone laid on a sinner’s chest.}

“Seven stand before me bold with their vices, blind to the ledger kept above. You fight for pride, for gold, for fleeting cheers. But this ring, this night, is no game. It’s a reckoning. Every deed, every sin you carry, I’ll lay bare.”

{Graves kneels, slow, pressing the sword’s tip to the stone—it bites deep, a quiet wound. His voice dips, intimate, like a confessor’s murmur.}

“He spoke to me once—through the storm, through the breaking of my own soul—and bid me rise. I’ve carried His charge since, a shepherd of retribution. You come now, this horde of Eclipse, Savor, Destructo, Way, Hatchet, Ayame and Nero seeking glory. I bring you truth instead—the mirror you cannot turn from.”

{He stands, voice rising, not loud but piercing, a preacher’s call laced with dread.}

“You will not slip past. Not evade the scales. I am His sword, His voice, here to drag you from your shadows and hold you to the light—where every flaw, every failing, stares back.”

{He raises the sword high, its arc a silent promise, his silhouette stark against the cathedral’s decay.}

“By His will, I mark this ground. Through me, Arcadia learns its judgment not in wrath alone, but in the silence of souls undone, forced to see what they’ve sown.”

{His voice falls, soft as ash, sharp as a blade’s kiss.}

“Run from your sins no longer. The faithless falter, the proud crumble. I leave you not just beaten but known.”

{The torch wavers, steadies, then fades. Darkness settles.}