It’s been four months since the death of The Red Monarch.


Since the discovery of his powers.


Cold. Weary from the traverse across the wastelands. Malnourished from the lack of supplies. Yet even more noticeable than the physical conditions he faces is the depression that confronts him. The sorrow.


It’s been four months since his brother was killed.


A minuscule remnant of hope drives him onward. Based on rumors. Legends. Stories of man said to live in the deserted infrastructures of a city far to the west. A man, once a member of The Syndicate, referred to now as The Exile. A man said to have power over death. 


The reliability of these stories had yet to be proven, and he had not the slightest notion of how he would find The Exile should he even exist. Nevertheless, he would press on, even at the smallest chance to have his brother’s life restored. Even at the failure of The Last Initiative. Perhaps blood and brotherhood prevailed after all.


This is his new mission. His new initiative… 

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