Legend LXXVI – The Last of the Damned

More about Legend LXXVI – The Last of the Damned

It is said that once there was a legion so fearsome that even the shadows of the mountains trembled when they marched. They wore armor of black steel, forged in the depths beneath the world, and their eyes burned like the embers of forgotten fires. But of all these warriors, only one survived the ages. Not because he was stronger than all the others, but because he lost something that even Hell could not take back: his soul. Since that day, he has been called the Last of the Damned. The forest in which he walks is older than the names of men. The trees stand like distorted witnesses to an ancient calamity, their roots twisting like broken limbs, and the mist never leaves his side. It is said that he is bound to this place, not as a guardian, not as a prisoner, but as an echo. An echo of what the world once feared and yet longed for: absolute justice. His helmet, crowned with horns and shaped like a skull, conceals a face no one has ever seen. Some believe there is nothing but emptiness beneath, a black hole where lost hopes swirl like dust. Others claim the bones of his true skull are fused to the steel, fused by the ancient ritual that once granted him immortality. But no one knows how many centuries have passed since that moment—and the warrior himself has long since given up counting. His shield, of dark iron and marked by a golden skull chain, bears the scars of countless battles. It is said that each cut in it is a name. Not the name of an enemy, but of a fallen slain he could not save. Perhaps that is the true curse: not damnation, but memory. Some travelers report seeing him in the mist. He stood motionless, like a statue from a forgotten age, yet his presence cut through the silence like a blade. No footsteps, no breathing—only the soft swing of his sword, as if yearning for blood he no longer seeks. He once drove away his enemies with merciless precision. But now he fights only against the emptiness around him, against the shadows that come from within. Yet legend also says something else, something few believe: The Last of the Damned is not lost. He waits. Somewhere in the depths of these woods, where roots prick the earth like fingers and the mist carries voices, a spark is said to exist—a chance for liberation. An ancient fire that could break his curse, if it were ever rekindled. One night, an old hermit recounts, he encountered the warrior. Not as an enemy, but as a seeker. The hermit saw no thirst for blood in his eyes, but an anguish so profound that even the darkness recoiled. The warrior raised his sword, but not to kill. Instead, he held it like a memory no one but him could bear. Then he spoke. His voice sounded like icy earth cracking. “I am not here to judge. I am here to end.”