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Your master is lying dead at the feet of another god. Golden ichor stains Morax' bare feet as he approaches you, polearm at the ready in anticipation of yet another battle.
You have only a brief moment to decide your next action. Yet you feel overwhelmingly dizzy with your newfound freedom, the shackle binding your will having shattered the moment the God of Dreams perished. You are so unused to the feeling that it makes it difficult to think clearly.
You do not want to die. Not when freedom is finally at your fingertips. You deserve to die. Slowly, painfully. Yet you want to live, desperately so. (Your desire to live, to revel in your regained freedom, is the epitome of selfishness. How dare you hope for a life beyond this day when you have taken that possibility from so many.)
You could drop your weapon and surrender. However, you are no fool, there is no merit in sparing your life. You can fight, yes. But Morax has no reason to trust you. (He also has enough loyal followers already. He certainly has no need for you. After all, there is no guarantee that you will keep any contract you make with him.)
You could continue to fight for survival. You are an Adeptus, quick on your feet with the help of Anemo and the physical strength of a Yaksha. (You stand no chance against a god. It will only draw out the inevitable.)
You could try to flee, chasing freedom to the last. But there is no doubt that the moment you turn your back to him, Morax' spear will run you through. A truly pitiful end, devoid of any honor. (Not that you can claim to have any honor left either way after everything you have done. Not with the weight of your karmic debt an ever present reminder of your sins.)
There is only one future for you. No matter what you choose, it will lead to the same outcome regardless. Better to savor this brief moment of freedom while it lasts. It will be your last chance to do so after all.
Too much innocent blood stains your hands. Enough to pool into a sea of crimson, one steep enough to drown in. Too many dreams greedily devoured by you. Their silky texture and sweet taste never quite able to blot out the horrid sight of the empty husks you leave behind. All you bring the world is carnage, death and destruction. (You tell yourself that accepting your punishment is the least you can do to atone. That the world will be better off without your existence.)
The moment passes, and you make your choice.
You drop your polearm and sink to your knees. With any luck, it will be quick. You brace yourself for the blow that will inevitably claim your life.
It does not come.
Morax merely gazes at you for what feels like aeons. Finally, he offers you a chance to redeem yourself. A new name. A new cause. A new life. (Of even more bloodshed, yes. Even if it is to protect others now rather than to torment them. But it is what you deserve, really. Better you than someone else. Better you, who is already broken. Already stained irrevocably with karmic debt.)
(And slaughter is what you have always been best at anyway.)
On that day, a god decides to be merciful to a rabid bloodhound. On that day, you swear a solemn oath to one you deem worthy to serve. Your reward might not be the freedom you wished for, but at least you will be able to atone for the sins of your past.
And maybe, just maybe, you will one day be able to lay down your weapon and dance amidst a sea of flowers once more.