Marcus wandered for two more years in this land. He saw the seasons change many times. He watched the forests turn from green to gold to white and back to green again.
He avoided the towns and villages when he could. But the curse kept pulling him toward conflict. Toward war. Toward death.
He fought in a dozen more battles. Small skirmishes between tribes. Raids on settlements. Ambushes in the forest. Each time, Marcus killed until there was no one left to kill. Then he moved on.
The people of this land started telling stories about him. The Deathless Warrior. The Blood Ghost. The Man Who Cannot Die. The stories spread from village to village, tribe to tribe.
Some people feared him. Some worshiped him. Some hunted him.
Marcus didn't care. He just kept walking.
One night, while sleeping by a fire, Marcus felt the familiar sensation beginning. The ache behind his eyes. The tingling in his fingers and toes.
The curse was calling him forward again.
"Not yet," Marcus whispered to the darkness. "Please, not yet."
But the curse didn't listen. It never did.
The world started to shimmer and fade. Marcus felt his body being pulled apart, atom by atom. The pain was incredible, like being burned alive while drowning while being skinned all at the same time.
He tried to scream, but he had no mouth.
He tried to hold on to something, anything, but he had no hands.
There was only pain and darkness and the endless forward pull of the curse.
And then nothing.