The abyss was infinite.
Every time Knull pressed against its depth, it unfolded further — an ocean without floor, a night without end. He explored it tirelessly. Weapons sharper than thought. Armor that erased meaning. Tendrils that could pierce not flesh, but souls.
He smiled often, not with joy, but with satisfaction. A century of restraint as Harold Kingsley had taught him patience, and now patience was his crown. There was no need to rush. A god who revealed himself too early was nothing more than a loud child.
Yet patience did not mean idleness.
He willed the abyss outward, and from the shadows crawled a shape. At first it was formless, a writhing smear of void. Then it grew bones, flesh, clothing. When it finally stood, it was the perfect imitation of Graveltooth — crude club and broken teeth included.
Knull studied his work with quiet amusement. "Even trash has its uses."
With a thought, the puppet shambled into the distance, leaving his true body cloaked in silence. Knull closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was looking through Graveltooth's eyes, hearing through Graveltooth's ears. The perspective was imperfect, blurred at the edges, but sufficient.
Yes. This is how I will walk among them.
Through the puppet, he returned to the outskirts of the city. Survivors screamed at the sight of "Graveltooth," believing the villain had escaped death. The puppet struck with brutal clumsiness, just as the real Graveltooth would have. But hidden behind the mask of brutality, Knull's will sifted through the chaos, watching, listening.
The reactions were telling. Some villains laughed, welcoming their comrade back. Others whispered in fear, for they had seen Graveltooth fall. Heroes debated whether this was resurrection or trickery. Rumors spread faster than fire.
And all the while, Knull sat in isolation, cloaked in the abyss, untouched, unseen. His true body never moved.
He created another puppet — this one not Graveltooth, but a nameless scavenger from the ruins. And another. And another. Soon, half a dozen walked the city in different guises, each carrying a piece of his abyss. Through them he seeded confusion, planted whispers, stoked fires. A trade deal ruined here, a minor skirmish sparked there, a subtle push that turned allies to rivals.
From his throne of shadows, Knull listened to the world begin to shift.
"This," he murmured, shadows coiling around him like serpents, "is how gods rule. Not by marching, but by weaving. Not by shouting, but by whispering."
The puppets bowed to no one but him, strings invisible, their wills hollow. They were not his army. They were his hands.
And when the time came for him to finally step into the light, the world would already be broken, softened, prepared for the silence he would bring.
Until then, he remained hidden. Alone. Eternal.