The Hero faced the greatest challenge of all his life times. Armed with his sword, and the Progenitor shard, a powerful crystal, said to have been the tool the gods used to create the multiverse. From his experiences with it, he felt that it probably was true.
He approached the altar in the astral realm where not a god, but evil itself was worshipped in all of its macabre, grim, bloody, glory. The altar was hideous, with idols of gods long forgotten lining the walls, forgotten because it would be risking madness just to look upon an image of their frightful visage.
He found himself stepping on the head of the serpent engraved on the steps with his feet. He chuckled slightly to himself, still practicing a habit from his reign as King of Aquilonia, crushing the head of the serpent god Set. One lifetime of heroics among many, but a notable one nonetheless. No wonder people thought he was that emperor guy.
A cloaked figure stood near the baleful deity's statue with a struggling lady tied to the altar, a dagger about to be plunged into her heart. The Hero had never understood why it seemed like evil cultists only sacrificed Virgin maidens.
He spoke, "Let the girl go, this is between us Malgotha."
The figure turned to him and lowered his hood to reveal a face that resembled a humans, but something seemed to be off, though it could not be seen. A wide grin spread on his face, revealing pointed teeth. This monster had gone by many names, but he always went for the dark sinister, look.
"How many times have we done this? What is your name this time around, Conan, Taliesin, Percival? Ah forget it, I'll just call you Conan."
The Cimmerian, though only one identity among many reincarnations smiled and drew his sword. "Crom is only one god among many, but I swear by him once more I will slay you for the atrocities you have done throughout your existence."
Malgotha smirked and drew a rapier. "So be it."
Conan and the High Priest went into a bloody confrontation. Conan swung a savage sword strike at the chest of Malgotha, who nimbly dodged him, and managed to stick the side of our hero.
It went on like this for a while each trading blows with the other until each was bleeding from a dozen different spots. Malgotha tripped, and Conan, honorable enough to help him to his feet, got sweep kicked for his trouble.
Malgotha took a moment to conk him on the noggin, chain him to the wall, and dramatically waited for him to come to his senses. How appropriate the number of sacrifice he was going to be.
When Conan awoke he found there was a large crowd of cultists. This was simply a shrine to the concept of evil so there were many different types of evil paraphernalia they had on them. Big medallions bearing the number 666, yells of "Hail Cthulhu!" from a pair of guys in the back, looking ridiculous in their big black cloaks, and the mishmash of various evil symbols they had on them, They got on his nerves.
Malgotha entered, dressed in a fine suit, and a top hat on his head. He bowed to the crowd. He walked up to a marble podium and began to speak.
"665 sacrifices ago, I never thought a shrine dedicated to not just one evil god, but the idea of evil itself, would catch on. Sure I could have made another shrine to Satan, but that guy gets enough attention for a guy who lost a golden fiddle to a country hick from Georgia. Who can really take a god like that seriously? Now I find devotees of all forms of evil flocking here to venerate their powers. And now, for our six hundredth and sixty sixth sacrifice, I bring you a great hero!"
The Crowd cheered as the hero rolled his eyes at how ridiculous Malgotha's flair for dramatics was. He struggled at the chains and broke free instantly. Malgotha simply smirked. He motioned to the audience as they all drew their weapons. They all were fond of audience participation. The Hero fought the millions of cultists until he was overcome, but he was killed in battle, not sacrificed. As such he passed on to the afterlife.
---------------------------------------------------The River Styx, The Underworld-----------------------------------------------------------
Charon found The soul of the Hero once again at the riverbank. As they had done plenty of times, the Hero offered up what money he had on him at the time of death, and he ferried him across.
"How did you die this time? Killed by a dragon perhaps?"
"Stupid bloody Cultists slew me in battle." The Hero shrugged.
Charon chuckled as he rowed. "You are the only soul I know that can justifiably act so casual about dying."
As the raft approached the land of the dead the Hero looked back on Charon, one of the oldest friends he had (a slightly disturbing thought considering how many times one would have to die to achieve that) and said to him before he departed, "So see you next time I die?"
Charon smiled, something he rarely did. "Always will."
As the Hero approached the land of the dead, he saw that the gates were closed and being locked by what looked like a 13 year old wearing a cloak engraved with various arcane marks who looked oddly familiar.
The Hero looked confused. "Who are you?"
"Who I am is not important. However I am here to tell you that thy story has not ended. You see, you have a story or 2 still left to write."
The Hero scoffed, "I am no scribe in some dusty library, I prefer to live, and die, by the sword."
The figure smirked. "I have been instructed to give you this to drink."
It pulled a vial out of it's pocket and proffered it to the Hero.
"River Lethe water. You'll need to drink it for this one."
The bewildered hero accepted it and drank it.
As his memories faded away from him, the mental scars and woes from all his lives slowly faded away as he was reborn in a realm that he had never seen in his past lives. I need not say it's name here...
The figure smiled as he shuffled a tarot deck he drew from his cloak and drew the top card to give a bit of a portent for this soul's coming adventure.
It happened that a changeling was born upon that instant in the land of Equestria. One who did not know what the heck was going to happen to them, as the memories that could have possibly prepared the little one for what was to happen were in the subconscious, not to rise until the time was right.
Her name was Beetle.