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CoinbaseNFT Avatar: #00751 Doomsday - The Dead Killer
Doomsday: The Beast That Conquered Death
The first time he died, he was reborn in fire. The scientists of Karnoth Prime thought they could create perfection a living weapon that feared nothing, felt nothing and killed everything. They crafted him from tortured flesh and shattered bone, molding a creature whose body could evolve past its every defeat. They named him Doomsday. He didn’t care for names.
The first time he opened his eyes, he crushed his creators with his bare hands. Their blood painted the lab walls as he ripped through steel and concrete, his claws tearing through barriers like paper. The guards fired round after round into his chest, but he only grew stronger, his body learning from each bullet. By the time he reached the surface, he was unstoppable. A walking apocalypse.
The Endless War
He rampaged across the galaxy like a plague. Planets fell in days. Armies were annihilated in hours. Entire species were wiped from existence in the span of a breath. His spiked body was a fortress of living death, constantly regenerating, constantly adapting.
When the warriors of Vel’Thar severed his limbs, he regrew them, the new limbs harder, sharper, more lethal. When the war mages of Solari Prime burned him with starfire, his skin blackened and hardened, becoming resistant to the heat of suns.
Death only made him stronger. His every scream of agony became a roar of rebirth. And he never forgot. He carried the memory of every wound, every broken bone, every dismemberment. His body adapted not out of instinct, but out of hatred. A primal, endless rage against existence itself. He didn’t want to rule. He didn’t want to conquer. He just wanted to destroy.
The Final Stand
The last remnants of the galaxy made their final stand on a dying world called Aurelia. They poured all their power, all their might, into a single desperate strike a reality-shattering weapon forged from the heart of a collapsing star.
They lured Doomsday into the weapon’s core, detonating it with enough force to erase the planet from reality. For a moment, there was silence. For a moment, the universe exhaled. But then, from the wreckage, something moved.
A silhouette, charred and molten, dragging itself from the debris. His body, blistered and broken, pulsed with new life. His spikes had grown longer, black as night and glistening like obsidian. His eyes burned like dying suns and his roar echoed through the void like a death knell for all creation. Doomsday didn’t die. He never died. He just came back angrier. And he was still hungry.
The first time he died, he was reborn in fire. The scientists of Karnoth Prime thought they could create perfection a living weapon that feared nothing, felt nothing and killed everything. They crafted him from tortured flesh and shattered bone, molding a creature whose body could evolve past its every defeat. They named him Doomsday. He didn’t care for names.
The first time he opened his eyes, he crushed his creators with his bare hands. Their blood painted the lab walls as he ripped through steel and concrete, his claws tearing through barriers like paper. The guards fired round after round into his chest, but he only grew stronger, his body learning from each bullet. By the time he reached the surface, he was unstoppable. A walking apocalypse.
The Endless War
He rampaged across the galaxy like a plague. Planets fell in days. Armies were annihilated in hours. Entire species were wiped from existence in the span of a breath. His spiked body was a fortress of living death, constantly regenerating, constantly adapting.
When the warriors of Vel’Thar severed his limbs, he regrew them, the new limbs harder, sharper, more lethal. When the war mages of Solari Prime burned him with starfire, his skin blackened and hardened, becoming resistant to the heat of suns.
Death only made him stronger. His every scream of agony became a roar of rebirth. And he never forgot. He carried the memory of every wound, every broken bone, every dismemberment. His body adapted not out of instinct, but out of hatred. A primal, endless rage against existence itself. He didn’t want to rule. He didn’t want to conquer. He just wanted to destroy.
The Final Stand
The last remnants of the galaxy made their final stand on a dying world called Aurelia. They poured all their power, all their might, into a single desperate strike a reality-shattering weapon forged from the heart of a collapsing star.
They lured Doomsday into the weapon’s core, detonating it with enough force to erase the planet from reality. For a moment, there was silence. For a moment, the universe exhaled. But then, from the wreckage, something moved.
A silhouette, charred and molten, dragging itself from the debris. His body, blistered and broken, pulsed with new life. His spikes had grown longer, black as night and glistening like obsidian. His eyes burned like dying suns and his roar echoed through the void like a death knell for all creation. Doomsday didn’t die. He never died. He just came back angrier. And he was still hungry.