You can run, but you cannot hide.

[Seth Karlo]

People had hated him. People still do. A killer remains a killer forever, blood stains can never be washed from the hands of a killer. A carpenter can become a mechanic. A writer can become a blacksmith. A policeman can become a criminal.

But a killer will always be a killer. Once you have taken the life and soul from a man, taking the power of a god into your hands, that mark will always be with you. He was known sirius wide as the zombie, the man who could not die, the man who had travelled across star systems, across galaxies, the man who had lost his mind as he was trapped, paralyzed.

The man so insane that he could not escape from his own mind long enough to realise his vengeance was directed at the wrong people.

He had murdered, cutting a swath of innocent corpses through Bretonia. He had built a shipyard, brainwashed an army of children, and gone forth in a dreadnought of doom, outfitted with advanced technology and creating a horrifying image of death for the people of Bretonia.

Then, the Bretonian Police, attacking the killer at a moment of weakness, when he was protecting his daughter, destroyed the mighty battleship, sending the behemoth exploding through a hole that was ripped through space and time, collapsing in on itself, the fire melting through the bulkheads and igniting the reactors.

Salazar Kithe was killed. And that was the end. The constant mocking tones, the endless threats, the repetitive curses over the airwaves were silenced. The ship was not seen. His drones had vanished. Finally, Bretonia was free of an insane menace who had plagued them for too long.

But it was not so.

The chair in the centre of the bridge was cold. Hard. Tough. It was designed to be a chair you could never relax in. This ship was full of things like that, Salazar would never let himself see that moment of weakness again.

He had been arrogant, believing that by destroying so much, he could destroy anything. Immortal he said. And yet he was not... though his body did not age, by the sword or the gun or space, he would die. He would not make that mistake again.

He had loved. He had sired a daughter. He had created a group of trusted people around him, and they had proven themselves liabilities. He was not a father, he was not a husband, he was a mass murderer. The Hunter had arisen once more. His ship was black, lithe, smaller and sleeker than the previous model. This ship was a ship designed to intimidate, to strike, to vanish. This was not a battleship, this was more of a cruiser, thin, elegant even to a degree.

It was still the hunter though, and it was still immortal.

Though his original ship was destroyed, the soul of it lived on. He lived on. Until his body was stone cold dead he would forever be hunting on his hunting grounds, a predator amongst lesser prey.

He did not reach for the communications button. They would know soon enough.

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Signature by Sleipnir.