Cain was the only son of Eve to inherit her immortality and strength, a cursed existence tethered to the flaws of his mother's lineage. Unlike the mortals who came after her, he did not wither with time, nor did he suffer the slow decay of flesh. But neither was he granted the radiant perfection of Adam's line. He existed in between, a being of immense power yet eternally marked by the weight of the first transgression. And so, he wandered the world alone, his footsteps tracing the long and brutal history of mankind.
He watched as civilizations rose and fell, as men who knew nothing of their origins carved out kingdoms in blood and fire. He saw tyrants proclaim themselves gods, lording over their subjects with cruel arrogance. These false deities, blind to their own mortality, sickened him. They were not like his father, the first man, who had ruled by divine design. They were imposters, playing at divinity with stolen crowns and trembling hands.
Cain did not stand idly by.
He became a scourge upon those who dared claim what was never theirs. Empires that expanded with cruelty, rulers who sought to immortalize themselves through fear—all fell before his wrath. He was a phantom, striking down monarchs in the dead of night, unraveling entire bloodlines with plagues of his own making. He had inherited a portion of Adam's essence, but it had been tainted by Eve's curse. That taint gave him dominion over sickness, over the invisible specters of death that clung to the weak and arrogant alike. Where he walked, disease followed. Cities that had declared themselves eternal crumbled in mere months, their people rotting from within.
He did not discriminate by race, for he saw all of Eve's children as part of the same flawed lineage. But he bore a special hatred for those who spread suffering without cause, those who sought to build their thrones atop the broken bodies of others. When the conquerors of Europe spread their influence to foreign lands, carrying pestilence with them, Cain watched. He observed as the white-skinned invaders, drunk on their own supposed superiority, shattered the native cultures of Africa, Asia, and the Americas. He saw them wield disease as a weapon, whether knowingly or not, infecting those who had lived in harmony with the world for centuries.
Cain's vengeance was swift. He crafted new plagues, more virulent and merciless than any before, and released them into the veins of empires that had overstepped their bounds. The great cities of the so-called enlightened world became graveyards. Their kings, who had proclaimed themselves divinely chosen, gasped for air as blackened sores blossomed across their flesh. Their clergy, who had preached the righteousness of their conquest, choked on their own blood. The children of the conquerors, who had never known hunger or fear, starved in the streets as their homes became tombs.
And yet, despite his endless work, Cain knew it was futile. He could halt the march of tyrants for a time, but new ones would always rise. He could raze cities to the ground, but others would be built atop the ruins. The cycle of suffering was endless, an ouroboros much like the one etched into his mother's flesh. He was not like Adam's sons, who flourished in their father's perfection, nor was he like the mortals, who perished in their weakness. He was something else entirely—a force of correction, an unseen hand that guided the world through its agonies.
But even Cain, for all his might, could not escape the loneliness of his existence. Immortal, yet forever an outcast. Powerful, yet unable to undo the original sin that had condemned mankind to this fate. As the centuries passed, he wondered if even he would one day be forgotten, if his work would be erased by the ceaseless march of history.
And so, he continued. Striking down the false gods. Erasing the names of tyrants from time. Watching, always watching, as the children of Eve suffered beneath a sky that had long since turned its back on them.