Atomic Wyvern
The plasma scythe snapped open with a hiss, casting flickers of sickly green light down the corridor. Its edge shimmered, bleeding heat and radiation like an open wound.
The first swing tore through four cultists in one motion—clean, effortless. They barely had time to scream before their bodies burst open, organs boiling from the inside out. He kept moving, silent, methodical—a walking executioner carved from scorched armor and burn-scars. Every step was another kill. Limbs hit the floor, faces melted away, torsos crumpled into glowing heaps of ash. A dozen fell before the smoke had time to clear.
At the end of the hall, the bunker waited—sealed, reinforced, walls smeared with blood and heretical filth. He didn’t hesitate. The scythe came down once, and the hatch folded in half, glowing molten at the edges.
Inside, the cultists screamed, some chanting, some begging. None of it mattered. He raised the scythe again and pulled the trigger.
A blast of nuclear plasma flooded the bunker. Oxygen ignited. Flesh vaporized. The icons, the bodies, the noise—all of it gone in an instant.
Just light. Then silence.
Atomic Wyvern art by @meduzartist
