"Do you hear it...? The music of marrow grinding beneath fate." Before he became a horror wrapped in reverb and splintered ivory, Kurnyx was a maestro—the Maestro, from a realm where music commanded reality. With a flick of his conductor’s baton, oceans would rise in tempo; mountains danced to his sonatas. They called him the Architect of Echoes, a genius whose symphonies made gods weep and demons dream. But genius curdles in isolation. Obsessed with crafting the Final Note—a sound to unravel entropy itself—Kurnyx tore open a vibrational rift that swallowed his orchestra mid-performance. Limbs were severed mid-bow. Throats burst as their last notes became shrieks. The conductor’s stand melted into bone. The air, forever stuck in scream. Fira, then a trembling soul-gatherer newly assigned to his realm, arrived to collect what little remained. "What... are you?" she had whispered, her scythe trembling in hand. Kurnyx, or what was left of him, grinned without lips. "I am the silence after the scream, little Reaper." Outmatched, Fira called for guidance. But it was Arif who answered. Arif did not kill him. He cursed him. Ripped from his dying realm and cast into the Death Arena, Kurnyx’s body was remade—his vocal cords replaced by obsidian reeds, his bones tuned to disharmony. His very spine became a vibro-horn, shrieking with every twist of agony. In the Arena, Kurnyx danced again—but not with elegance. His enemies’ skulls were instruments. Their blood marked the rhythm. He once screamed so hard, a ten-armed berserker exploded in a fountain of bone-dust and red mist. A crowd of Eldritch Lords applauded with psychic howls. "Listen closely!" Kurnyx cried during his final duel, "For my crescendo is your requiem!" Fira, watching from the sidelines, did not blink once. She no longer saw a monster—she saw what a mistake could become when art becomes godhood.