A foul stench coated the damp corridors of Deathenbulkiztahlem's deepest laboratory. Greenish torches guttered along stone walls scrawled with insane scribbles in black, red, and the muted brown of dried blood. In the center of this putrid sanctum stood Deathwing, his gaunt figure trembling with gruesome delight as he probed a moldy cadaver spread across a metal slab.
"My children," Deathwing hissed, turning toward a group of robed scientists, each wearing patchwork masks made from the flayed remains of their former enemies. "Progress must be swift. Our arsenal is incomplete until we perfect every vile concoction of agony."
He yanked a twisting coil of flesh from the corpse, letting it hang loosely from his gloved hand. Milky eyeballs rolled in the cadaver's sunken sockets, pupils dancing in a final, pointless protest.
"Soon," he whispered, voice trembling with savage glee, "we will show the Galaxy Regime what true horror looks like."
A harried assistant, breathing in shallow, terrified gasps, attempted to present a flimsy clipboard. "M-m-master Deathwing, the necrotic legion awaits your order. Our ballistic ships...are prepped in the harbor. The infected cavalry stands at attention. Your new...new...weapon is - "
Deathwing spun, his eyes ablaze with the color of rancid, rotting moonlight. "Silence!" His shriek echoed, sending vermin scuttling into the shadows. "I have seen the flaws in your previous calculations. Do not dare disappoint me again."
With a trembling bow, the assistant croaked, "At once, my lord," then disappeared into the gloom.
Meanwhile, at the outskirts of Deathenbulkiztahlem, armies rallied. Drums of war pounded in unison with the thunder of churning machinery. Legions of drooling undead, each wearing battered armor crusted with blackened gore, marched beneath banners etched with twisted runes. Overhead, primitive aircraft with hulls of twisted iron soared, purple flames licking at their sleek flanks.
From a grand vantage point on a craggy outcrop, Deathwing watched the orchestrated chaos beneath him with maniacal pride. He raised a pale hand and extended a single clawed finger toward the horizon - the direction of the Galaxy Regime, the shining land of Galaxenchi.
"They will kneel," he whispered, though his words seemed to ring with thunderous finality in the roiling skies. "They will choke on despair as we break them, body and soul."
Deathwing's second-in-command, a fiendish warlord named Kravelion, approached with a hushed tone. "My liege, the Blackened Regime's reinforcements have arrived, and the Darkened Regime's siege weapons are ready. We stand united. The entire continent awaits only your command."
Deathwing's crimson lips curled into a grin that resembled a fresh wound across his ashen face. "Proceed. Send every abomination we've molded, every cursed creation we've devised. Let them swarm the Solar, Lunar, and Star Regimes. None shall be spared."
He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the swirling doom around him. "And when the last beams of sunlight sputter and fade into the choking dark...they will know Deathenbulkiztahlem was their executioner."
At that very moment, far away in the glittering spires of Galaxenchi, Professor Galaxbeam, the Timelord, felt a subtle ripple through the cosmos. His fingertips glowed faintly with starlight as he paused in his own workshop. Looking into a swirling vortex of cosmic energies, he murmured:
"He is coming for me. At last."
A small, mischievous grin tugged at the corner of Galaxbeam's mouth, as he let time slip between his fingers like liquid stardust. "Come then, Deathwing. We have danced across eons, and I shall relish our final performance."
And in the pungent gloom of Deathenbulkiztahlem, Deathwing felt a prickle of recognition from across the void. He laughed - a howling, rasping cackle that seemed to split both the air and every last shred of decency in its path.
The horrors they would unleash had only just begun.
THE CONVOCATION OF DECAY
A howling wind slithered through the vaulted halls of Deathenbulkiztahlem, carrying the nauseating tang of rotting flesh. Flickering crimson torchlight danced across walls etched with vile symbols, and shadows trembled as if sentient. At the far end of an obsidian table, carved from onyx and laced with dark veins, sat Deathwing, the King of Death. His skin was a ghastly shade of dark gray mottled with purple undertones, and his sunken eyes blazed with wrath - each iris forming a faint cross-shape that pulsed with twisted energy.
Before him knelt six figures. They were partly human, partly zombified, with dark-gray or deep-purple flesh that seemed to writhe in the eerie light. Their eyes, too, bore the harrowing cross pattern, glowing with the promise of torment.
These were the Supreme Commanders of the Death Regime:
Deathendye: His tall, rangy form draped in tattered chainmail, the tarnished links clanking with each breath.Deathendale: A gaunt figure spattered with fresh gore, a rusty hook replacing one rotted hand.Deathenstream: With ragged vestments clinging to his sunken torso, jagged bone fragments visible just beneath the surface.Deathenstride: A towering knight-like silhouette, a cleaver strapped across his back and a trail of blackened ichor following his steps.Deathenstorm: Bulky and bristling with spiked armor, arcs of necrotic lightning occasionally crackling at his fingertips.Deathenpuff: The sole female among them, hair matted in strings and scalp partially exposed, yet moving with an unsettling grace.
Their decayed flesh, either dark gray or purple, emanated a sickly sheen. Veins bulged and squirmed, while strange rivulets of dark liquid oozed between patches of exposed muscle. Each of them bore cross-shaped pupils - some tinted a deep lavender, others a near-black hue - lending their gazes a haunted symmetry that threatened to pull lesser beings into an abyss of madness.
Deathwing's Unholy Command
Deathwing rose from his iron throne, letting the scraping of metal echo through the hall. His bony fingers, each tipped with a blackened claw, traced invisible sigils in the air.
Deathwing (echoing snarl):
"My most exquisite children of rot... you who have feasted on agony and torn hope from the hearts of mortals... rise and report."
Deathendye
The first to step forward was Deathendye, chainmail rattling. A rotting piece of flesh peeled from his jaw as he spoke, eyes flickering with violet malevolence.
Deathendye (rasping growl):
"Master, the battalions of decaying souls heed your will. They moan... eager to devour living flesh. Only your word stands between them and a veritable banquet."
His dark-purple complexion was crisscrossed by thin, black veins pulsing in time with his unholy heartbeat.
Deathendale
Next, Deathendale advanced, the stump of his left arm ending in that lethal hook. His own skin was a sickly purple hue, blotched with charcoal-gray bruises.
Deathendale (breathy whisper):
"Lord Deathwing, we are straining at our chains... Let the frenzy begin. Let our armies taste fresh gore once more. The thought of tearing flesh from bone... it excites us."
His cross-shaped eyes narrowed in a moment of rabid glee, dark saliva oozing from the corners of his mouth.
Deathenstream
Deathenstream let out a giggle, high-pitched and broken, stepping awkwardly into the torchlight. His chest cavity quivered under a layer of necrotic, dark-gray flesh, an occasional insect crawling beneath the skin.
Deathenstream (hushed excitement):
"Grant me the vanguard, Lord. I wish to watch their faces contort in terror... to drink in the last flicker of hope in their eyes. I'll gather their screams, if you wish - bottle them like the sweetest perfume."
Deathenstride
In two thunderous steps, Deathenstride bowed low, the archaic metal plating strapped over his decaying limbs screeching as he moved. Blotches of purple and gray mottled his exposed shoulders, a testament to his unnatural existence.
Deathenstride (rigid solemnity):
"We are your blade, King of Death. Let us carve a path of ruin through Galaxenchi's heart. My cleaver thirsts for new trophies... fresh trophies."
A slick grin revealed blackened gums around jagged teeth.
Deathenstorm
Crackling necrotic energy illuminated Deathenstorm's hulking form. His grayish-purple veins pulsed with each arc of electricity.
Deathenstorm (deep, resonant roar):
"I stand ready to hurl storms of corruption upon Galaxenchi's defenses. Let thunder and decay break their walls, and let their howls of despair become our battle hymn."
His cross-shaped irises sparked, reflecting the malevolent lightning that danced along his limbs.
Deathenpuff
Lastly, Deathenpuff glided forward with eerie poise. Where her dark-purple flesh had peeled away, pockets of bone gleamed with a slick black shine.
Deathenpuff (soft, lingering tone):
"My dear Master... every step we take on their soil will be a dance of death. Their twisted screams, the perfect melody to our ravaging chorus. I cannot wait to feel their fear, to wear their final breaths like a perfume."
She dipped her head in a graceful bow, scalp flaying slightly at the motion, but showing no sign of pain.
Deathwing raised both arms, black robes swaying like a living shadow around him. His cross-shaped eyes flared with an intensity that set the entire hall trembling.
Deathwing (rasping proclamation):
"My glorious abominations... gather every reanimated husk, every twisted atrocity born of our laboratories. Load them onto the transport ships. We sail for Galaxenchi. Let the Galaxy Regime tremble at the horror we bring."
A crack of thunder reverberated through the stone pillars, almost as if the skies themselves cowered at his call.
March to the Docks
Shortly thereafter, the courtyard of Deathenbulkiztahlem overflowed with undead. Thousands of mindless zombies - their skin likewise a spectrum of dark-gray and purple - formed uneasy ranks. Faint moans and the wet slop of rotted flesh shifting on bone filled the air. Uniforms hung in shreds on many of them, while the more mutated soldiers sported additional arms, twisted spines, or half-melted features.
At the head of this festering horde, the Supreme Commanders barked orders, driving the mindless throng forward.
Deathendye (snarling at his troops):
"Move, you sacks of rot! The living world awaits our putrid touch. Onward, to the docks!"
One particularly decayed soldier lagged, prompting Deathendale to ram his hook-hand into the creature's side. The zombie let out a wretched groan, viscera slopping onto the cobblestones.
Deathendale (with sadistic relish):
"The worthless shall be devoured by those more worthy. March... or become fodder."
Deathenpuff, twirling an ichor-soaked blade between her long claws, paraded among the ranks with a cruel smile.
Deathenpuff (sing-song cruelty):
"Remember, my darlings, every beating heart you tear from its chest is an offering to our King of Death. Revel in it."
Boarding the Transport Ships
The docks groaned under the combined weight of war machines and endless waves of reanimated abominations. Heavy landing transports, bristling with jagged spikes and corroded cannons, bobbed in the murky waters of the harbor. Their sails bore necrotic symbols that pulsed with an otherworldly glow.
Deathenstorm and Deathenstride supervised the loading. Lightning flickered around Deathenstorm's gauntlets, while Deathenstride used his colossal cleaver to keep the shuffling masses in line.
Deathenstorm (bellowing to be heard above the din):
"Pack them in tight! No space wasted. We cross the sea on a tide of pestilence!"
A roiling grin spread across Deathenstride's gaunt features.
Deathenstride (eyes flickering):
"Our ships will descend upon Galaxenchi like a plague of locusts, unstoppable and ravenous. Let them cry out to their gods - none shall answer."
Deathenstream, cackling at every lurch of the deck, patted the heads of lesser zombies as they boarded.
Deathenstream (tone brimming with unhinged delight):
"Come, my pets. Your suffering is the stepping stone to our greater feast."
With each step, his dark-purple flesh squelched against the deck, insects skittering around his exposed ribs. The putrid legion pressed ever forward, filling the ships to near bursting.
Departure into Darkness
From atop a decaying watchtower, Deathwing observed the exodus. His grin was the shape of a fresh wound, revealing ivory teeth ringed by blackened gums. He closed his eyes, sensing the flutter of dread radiating across the seas toward the unsuspecting Galaxy Regime.
Deathwing (whispering into the night):
"Sail forth, my nightmares. May your footsteps echo in the corridors of mortal fear... and may Professor Galaxbeam feel my breath upon the back of his neck."
Thunder boomed overhead, and an oily drizzle began to fall, slicking every surface with a foul sheen. One by one, the ships launched into the roiling waves. Tattered sails, scrawled with unholy glyphs, caught the grim wind, propelling them eastward - toward Galaxenchi, the seat of the Galaxy Regime.
As the final transport slipped away from the docks, Deathwing's silhouette vanished into the gloom of his tower. Behind him, the torches guttered and died, leaving only the dull glow of necrotic runes etched into the stones.
Thus, the Death Regime set forth, a vast tide of pestilence and decay. Their dark-gray and dark-purple skin glistened under the storm-lashed moonlight, and their cross-shaped eyes burned with the promise of absolute ruin. The continent of Galaxenchi would soon know the true extent of Deathwing's vengeful might - a crescendo of horror no mortal kingdom could ever withstand.