Hollowgrace (Windows)

The weight of gold begins to whisper to your soul.

You have taken all that glitters from the dead.

A few pieces of hope shimmer in your grasp.

The first of the fallen crumble before your blade.

The dead begin to fear the living once more.

You stand unbroken, a beacon in the darkness.

The curse deepens—your humanity fades with each victory.

You cleanse the shadows with righteous steel.

Your path is paved with bones and silence.

Even in ruin, fortune favors the bold.

The seal breaks—what was once buried now whispers your name.

Each tumble defies death’s grasp—each breath a borrowed gift.

You move like a whisper between the blades of fate.

You spin through the abyss as though mocking the reaper himself.

The dance begins—grace guides your every evasion.

You have carved a grim path through the restless dead.

No hollowed soul remains to bar your way.

Your body moves by instinct, bound to an endless rite.

You stand crowned by wealth tainted with despair.

Your purse grows heavy with cursed gold.