Hell Clock

There is a contagious fury in Hell Clock's bones, louder than its flaws or features list. Pajeú staggers, weakened, through a razed village in a storm. When he returns, he is the storm. Still spinning, still winning, made of wrath and gunsmoke and a circle of blades and lightning that just keeps expanding with every suspiciously perfect upgrade. I am certain there are numbers under the hood, stewing like the spirits of avenging dead, nudging the RNG just so. Much obliged, furious ghosts. One more run it is, then.