That there may be nothing left is a blessed curse. The ground below him which drank his blood has already begun to moisten and grow. Soon the rotting stench of it will fill the air, the cancerous growth will expand, and it will demand nourishment. It must be fed, this place, so that its death may grow and spread. But in a land already dead, what place does the demon gardener have? Death is what he and his progeny do. This should be the end of all his means, the thing his millennia of wretched work has been to accomplish, but for death to happen, for it to matter, there must be life to begin with. Nonexistence favors no one and nothing. The demon looks toward the horizon, wondering if there is anything left. Any life, anywhere.