The demon was beginning to remember. Though the fire in its head still caused it agony, torturing it into fits of madness, it grew stronger and more knowledgeable each time it fed. The host body it possessed was aiding it too, nourishing it with the essence of human wickedness.
An image had already taken shape in its mind, a faint imprint of the memory of what it was sent to murder. A dormant power. A sleeping giant. One who must be destroyed while still weak and defenseless.
It knew it had to act furtively, to use its ability to creep and hide. In its own maimed and vulnerable state, it could not risk being captured or killed.
Everything rested on the mission. The final step of the Great Plan. All else had been put into place. This shedding of blood, the red rite of slaughter, would seal the beginning of the end.
For it had come in the name of the Destroyer of Worlds.