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This level contains several topics that may make you uncomfortable. Please, if you are sensitive to gore, death, and violence, avoid this level.



Do not enter lest your organs become tithe for Godhand — unless you are prepared to be torn limb from limb as you paint the hands of your perpetrator with your heart's fluids. If you enter, your muscles will be torn with a snap and a crunch off the tendon, your bones pounded into dust. Your skin will melt straight from your flesh; the flesh itself will freeze and crack. Do not enter unless you are one of us.

.  .  .

The warnings don't scare you, you say? "Bring it on!"; "Try me!"; "Catch me if you can mood!". That's lovely, isn't it‽ Come one, come all! Bask in the pious glory of our lord and saviour! He laughs with a crimson grin, teeth stained by the remains of those that he has brutalized! Let it serve as an example to us all — let us bathe in red and relish in this paradise!


Our paradise, designated the measly label of Level 977 by those less enlightened folk, is a sanctuary for Godhand and all of its followers. It takes the form of a 19th-century gothic city, the streets stained in the ruby-red sweat and tears of our heart as battle cries echo; indefinite violence takes place as fist hit fist and brawlers trade bruises: a holy currency without a doubt, almost as valuable as the ichor bestowed upon us as a gift for our awakening. Red-veined followers offer tributes to our Lord — bloodshed provides plenty of sustenance for the man in the church.

You see, through the blessing of Godhand, all injuries, no matter if they threaten life or not, heal in an instant within this realm of ours. This allows for the perfect field of battle — a place where we can release our inner selves and experience the childlike joy of brutalization forever!

I do say, though, that I wish we saw new faces around here every once in a while. The churches often find themselves empty, the pews collecting dust instead of our familiar scarlet ecstasy. The cobblestone roads sometimes find quiet if you venture far enough away from Him, no teeth to be found littering the floor. Times like these find me in quite the depressing mood; however, this is only a gear to shift the cogs of change! I hope to venture out soon. I heard of a new phenomenon that was recently discovered. Apparently, it's shaken up the city quite a bit. If I can make acquaintance with some of those folks, I'm certain I can create a new vessel! Oh yes, He would be so pleased with that! Apologies, my brothers, but I must place our carnage on halt. I will make haste as best I can — keep the place lively while I'm gone, will you!

Aside from the immortality that our domain grants, it also seems to have a surprising effect on newcomers. Even if they haven't been taught our ways, they will begin to see the truth. For those less versed in brutality, witnessing these grounds alone could be quite traumatizing. Once one of us is kind enough to initiate them, the shock will lead to them eventually reaching a threshold where they begin a magnificent rampage — a seven-day massacre fuelled by the primal urge to see guts splay! It really is a wonderful sight, so it's a shame that it doesn't happen often. I wish they wouldn't block all of the entrances to this place.


The HEART is our connection to Godhand. He is the one who pumps His essence into our veins when we ask for ichor. He teaches and guides and provides for us, His children, and fills us with strength until we are fat and full. The path of the true is the path we are guided upon by the HEART. Us vessels have the strongest connection to Him. Sometimes, He will speak to us — not in any language we know, but a tongue that we can somehow understand as if it was natural. It's like the difference between a battle cry and screaming in pain or anguish. He wills our every action and allows us to taste Godhood, even if it's only for a moment at a time.

The HEART beats with an unrestricted, primal thorn to Him, driving those close enough to hear ever closer to Godhand. He may only appear to be a mural on glass, but He is our leader. The church in which He resides is considered the centre of the infinite plane; a paradox, I know, but such is the very nature of a God.

A battlefield surrounds the HEART. It's said that the closer to the centre you trek, the more intense and beautiful the fights become. The entire area is soaked in incarnadine cruor, leaving the ground sticky and warm with fresh spillage — even better if limbs and teeth and innards converge with foot, for the texture is oh-so gratifying.

Of course, the only meals we eat are earned. We feast both symbolically and literally upon the flesh of our enemies to push us toward our next quarrel, taking ample time to savour the shade of sanguine as it covers our mouths inside and out. The mess hall is the one place where we all hold our punches and appreciate our efforts. Murals of ravishing carnage stain the windows of the hall, as they do with every building, and remind us who we are and what our purpose as humans is and will remain to be.

Entry and  Exit

To enter our paradise, you must have blood coat your hands or your fists. Alternatively, you can enter if you chance upon an old, wooden door, red fluid puddling out from it.

Exit is hopeless if you aren't prepared to brawl. A wooden trap-door lay in the corner of the level's centre. Entering it will cause one to fall perpetually until a destination is decided, whereupon you will be landed where you desire.

From heart comes blood to fill our clenched fists,
To let us shed more, pounding so hard as to shatter wrist.
From heart comes the hunger to kill, bash, and bruise,
To let our screams roar loud enough to reach back to you.

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