Star Wars: Advent of The Hellwalker (Ahsoka x M! Reader)

Prologue

Glossary
(y/n) = Your name
(l/n) = your last name
(y/e/c) = your eye color
(y/h/c) = your hair color
(y/s/c) = your skin color

(Your point of view)

They are rage... brutal... without mercy... But I... I am worse.

They call me many names. The hellwalker, The Doom Slayer, the beast, the unchained predator, the Scourge of the underworld. Hell has never given a mortal a title before, one might call it an honor. How naive. I know there is not honor among the damned. Those of true honor would give a title out of respect, a sign to all that this person here is an exception, to be treated with hospitality and gratitude. I myself have the blood of billions on my hands. It's even possible that I've spilled more than the forces of hell itself. I may be an exception to the demons, but my titles are not ones of respect, they are of fear. They refer to my titles, because when one yells them out, it is not meant to bring praise, it is to spread terror and caution. To alert the others that death itself has come to their doorstep. A call to arms, or a call to retreat. A warning that their sins are about to be paid for. If they don't cower and run away in terror, they attack in cold blood. Where they would attack other beings for torture and pleasure, they attack me to kill, not taking any chances. They look at me like a monster. It's terrible, not to mention ironic.

And just the way I like it.

I live for their terror, their pain, their suffering. It is the only thing that can bring me satisfaction for how much suffering they put me through. Too much time has passed and too much blood has been spilt. As the time grazed by and my pain tolerance grew, the trade off was my grip on reality slowly slipped away, and I was helpless to stop my mortal memory from fading with it. Eventually as I remained chained up above the flaming pits, with the blood flow ceasing, the wounds sealing up, yet the pain still lingering permanently, all I could understand was the agony. But no matter how much time passes by I never forget my purpose and my drive.

They tortured me. They burned me, scarred me, clawed at my flesh. Years, decades, entire centuries, maybe even millennia, of long and endless torture and pain. It hurt so much, and they inflicted it on me endlessly and mercilessly, laughing and taunting me as they did so. The process to gradually turn mortals like myself into one of them is a terribly long one that brings the hellspawm enjoyment out of inflicted suffering. It was long enough to drive me mad with rage and the desire for freedom and payback. Until I finally snapped. I broke free of my chains and using only my own strength and unbroken will, I fought back; I killed them. I killed them hard. I reclaimed the ownership of my soul and swore revenge. I hate them. I hate all of them. And the fact that they're all around me means that all I ever feel is hatred. Yet no matter how long I persist on wiping them out, they just won't die. And so, neither must I. As long as I remained in the dark afterlife, the years I spent exercising my rage on them did not age me. The state of my body lay unmoved by time. But it could not preserve me mentally in all the chaos. All the scars and wounds I ever gained would seal up after a while, yet the pain would linger for months or even years, and it continued to build up as I fought back. I spent too many years to count slaughtering them, helpless to stop the pain and anger from driving me to insanity until it was all I could comprehend in my life. I forgot who I was. I forgot my name, my past, my life. I also forgot comfort, I forgot empathy, mercy, I forgot honor, I forgot peace, I forgot humanity. It was all lost in the pain and rage.

Until I stumbled upon them.

They were conquerors like the demons. They captured me when I was finally reaching the end of my road, unexpectedly cast out of hell, beaten and battered, starving, dehydrated by the flames, bleeding, and completely and utterly broken, rambling words of insanity at the edge of their domain. They put me in chains once again and dragged me to their world, or one of them, their capital where they had me judged in front of their goddess. I was put in their arenas and their front lines to fight for them in their conquests like a slave. When I wasn't fighting for them, I was behind bars in a cell, restless and awake, still shouting lunatic nonsense at the ceiling of my cell, mindlessly eager to sate my desperate need to exhaust my infinite anger and re-enter the battlefield to rip and tear like a monster, and they treated me as such.