In the suffocating lands of Tamahirii’s infernal courts, where whispers carry further than screams, one name festers in the minds of mortals and fiends alike—Thargon. Known as The Betrayer, he is not a conqueror of battlefields, but a sovereign of the mind. His power seeps not through the clash of steel, but through the unseen fractures in trust, the quiet moments when certainty falters, and the dread that blooms in its absence.
Thargon thrives in the smoldering calm after war, when soldiers and rulers believe themselves safe. It is then that his work begins—undermining alliances, feeding suspicion, and ensuring that no victory remains pure. His influence gnaws at the edges of thought until allies seem like enemies, and one’s own shadow feels treacherous.
The Betrayer’s creed is simple: victory belongs to those who cripple the will to resist. He plants doubts that metastasize into paranoia, crafting betrayals so intricate that even the guilty do not realize their part until the trap has already closed. To fight Thargon is to fight an enemy you can neither see nor strike—a foe who wins the battle in your mind long before the war begins.
Though his dominion is rooted in fear, Thargon is a sculptor of it rather than a brute. He stalks the minds of the traumatized, whispering of escape from the terrors that wake them in the night. His bargains are laced with poisoned hope—promises that lead, step by step, toward the forfeiture of one’s soul.
Yet such trespass into mortal thought has earned him enemies. His intrusion into domains of fear and mental corruption has sparked the wrath of other abyssal powers, who see him as a usurper of their rightful prey. His most notorious rivalry lies with Xalvas, the Archfiend of Warfare and Brutality. Their clashes are not fought on open fields, but over the lingering spirits of the slain—each seeking to twist the dead into instruments of their own ambition.
Now, Thargon’s ambition stretches toward a far greater prize: Liao, the god of death in the mortal realm of Midora. In his blasphemous hunger, Thargon dreams not merely of stealing followers, but of slaying the deity outright and usurping the mantle of Death itself. This pursuit has brought divine attention upon him—attention he meets with the same careful patience he has shown in every scheme.
Thargon’s legacy is written in the collapse of kingdoms, the quiet undoing of heroes, and the sleepless nights of rulers who suspect betrayal behind every smile. He is the whisper in the council chamber, the phantom step in the dark hallway, the gaze felt but never seen. And though his rise may seem inevitable, all empires built on fear eventually face the same question—when will the blade he planted in another’s hand find its way to his own back?