A Fall Beyond the Eclipse
There are betrayals, and then there are ascensions.
The Eclipse was never the end of Griffith's journey. It was merely the breaking point, the knife in the hand of destiny turned inward. A pact sealed in sacrifice. A transformation not into justice, but ambition incarnate.
Griffith was reborn as Femto, hand of the Godhand, avatar of darkness — a demonic sovereign born of human dreams twisted into endless suffering.
But even the Idea of Evil, the dark heart of Berserk's world, could not hold what Griffith truly was.
Too calculated. Too elegant.
Too dangerous.
As the World Spiral collapsed in on itself, as causality trembled beneath its own design, a fracture in fate appeared.
And from that breach — cold, calculated, exquisite — Griffith stepped into the Warp.
A Duel of Gods
He did not scream.
He did not stagger.
He walked into chaos incarnate like it was merely another battlefield to conquer.
His armor shimmered with ethereal light, wings of night folded behind him like broken promises.
Two powers felt his arrival immediately.
One, a maelstrom of blood and violence, took form in a titan of brass and shadow — a greater daemon of Khorne, forged from wrath, standing upon skulls that still whispered in agony.
The other, a storm of possibility, emerged as a shifting being of feathers, tongues, and eyes — a greater daemon of Tzeentch, radiant with the flame of change and deceit.
"You desire conquest," Khorne thundered. "But have you earned it with blood?"
"You manipulate fate," Tzeentch purred. "But do you comprehend the price?"
They would test him — not as a mortal, nor as a demon, but as an idea.
To see if Griffith was worthy of their favor.
Or if he would be unmade in the storm of Chaos.
Trial of Khorne: The Arena of Honorless Blood
Griffith stood in a gladiatorial arena shaped from the bones of a billion warriors. No honor, no audience — only blood and the roar of flesh meeting steel.
Before him rose champions — beastmen, daemons bred for nothing but war.
Each charged with fury.
Each fell without resistance.
Griffith was elegance made carnage.
His blade danced. His wings struck. His eyes remained unmoved.
He did not revel in violence — he commanded it.
The final challenger, a daemon-giant of blood and fire, shouted, "You feel nothing! Where is your fury?"
Griffith answered, "Fury is for the desperate. I do not rage. I decide."
And with a single strike, he ended the giant's existence.
Khorne watched from his throne of skulls, unmoving, then nodded once.
"You fight without glory. Without joy. But you win. That is enough."
The Mark of Khorne branded itself upon Griffith's gauntlet — a sigil of relentless conquest.
Trial of Tzeentch: The Labyrinth of Infinite Faces
Now he stood within a tower with no top nor bottom, where every wall whispered lies in voices he trusted — Guts, Casca, Skull Knight, Charlotte, even himself.
Each door opened into another timeline.
In one, he never betrayed the Band of the Hawk — and lived forgotten.
In another, he killed Guts and ruled in emptiness.
In yet another, he refused the Behelit and died a mortal.
Tzeentch laughed.
"Which version of you is the real one, Falcon?"
Griffith walked forward, calmly. "All of them are me. Each a choice made with clarity."
He entered the final door — one where he stood before the Chaos Gods themselves, and offered them a deal.
Not to serve.
To shape.
Tzeentch, fascinated, bent its thousand heads.
"You would use even the gods to craft your dream?"
Griffith looked upward with eyes that once burned with hope and now glowed with ambition.
"I already have."
A thousand avian faces laughed — not in mockery, but in respect.
And so, the blessing of Tzeentch was granted — a fragment of the Architect of Fate burned into his soul.
The Gift of Duality
Two gods.
Two extremes.
Khorne, the god of rage, who respected his mastery of war without emotion.
Tzeentch, the god of schemes, who admired his understanding of destiny as a tool to be rewritten.
Griffith accepted their power without kneeling. He merely inclined his head, the gesture of a general receiving new weapons.
They gave him a helm that whispers futures, and a blade that steals strength from those who dream.
He emerged from the Warp trial with no screams or laughter — only purpose sharpened to a point.
A Glimpse of the Jester
And then came the whisper of a name.
Joker.
He saw it, felt it — not as a threat, but as a variable.
A thing that broke structure. Unbound by order or purpose.
"An agent of unreason," Griffith murmured, staring into the swirling Warp. "A destroyer of plans, even his own."
He did not despise him.
He did not underestimate him.
He simply cataloged the jester — as a force of nature, wild and unpredictable.
"Such chaos cannot be directed," Griffith concluded. "But it can be aligned, if only for a moment."
He already began planning how he would manipulate the Joker.
Not with chains.
Not with force.
But by offering him a stage grand enough… and perhaps, letting him burn it all down when the time came.
The Falcon's Eyrie
Griffith built his domain within the Warp — a citadel of mirrored glass and obsidian, high upon a floating mesa surrounded by blind angels and weeping stars.
It was named Eyrendahl — the Throne of All Dreams.
Here he gathers warriors, seduced by vision and guided by manipulation.
He does not preach. He does not demand.
He inspires.
He commands not loyalty, but destiny.
And with every passing moment, he prepares for the inevitable war. Not against mortals, not against gods — but against those who stand in his path to reshape all reality.