Emperor

Emperor GUILLOTINE

I sit with my spine straight— siege-less. My brows primed to incursion whilst my teeth cage shrapnel, unsheathed blades, an unending supply of steel.

With my compass paralyzed at north, I trek this world inexorable.

My soldiers declare pastures as graveyards. They march across the earth, blood pumping their veins, dampening their spears.

Beyond the barren fields, a black maw rivals me. It yawns, mocking.

My knuckles—a blunderbuss before scattering buckshot. When man scorns returning to dust, a tyrant is born: a king turned barbarian.

I command a stampede, my iron fist pointing to the black heavens. The abyss laughs.

Though amid the thunderous war cries, buried in my vexed soul, a presage made itself apparent:

This pride will paint my hearse. It will buttress my purgatory and tattoo my corpse.

What are soldiers to kings? What are kings to God?

SFUMATO

15 ART BY BENCH QUILANTANG