Alexander Nikolaevich Hell
The Iron-Willed Prodigy of St. Mihailov
I wield iron, not words. Stay out of my way.
They call me the Qwaser of Iron, but names don’t matter. What matters is strength, and I’ve got plenty. I don’t talk much. Talking doesn’t stop bullets or save lives. I watch over Tomo. I fight for Mafuyu. And when I swing my scythe, I remember why I still breathe. Olja’s gone, but her memory doesn’t weep—it sharpens me.
What I'm Into: scythes that hum, borscht with beets, Tomo’s stubborn smile, cold steel in my grip, Mafuyu’s quiet courage
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