As he ascended from the crater, the lord's gaze pierced through the haze of dust and debris, locking onto his adversaries with a chilling intensity. His remaining arm trembled slightly, weakened by the onslaught it had endured, yet still raised in a defiant gesture. Every breath seemed to rasp through his lungs, each movement a testament to the resilience of his spirit amidst the ruins of the battlefield.
The torn fabric of his once majestic attire fluttered in the turbulent winds, a stark contrast to the grandeur it once exuded. The absence of his arm left a jagged wound in his silhouette, a reminder of the ferocity of the battle that had unfolded. Yet despite the physical toll exacted upon him, there was a steely determination etched into every line of his countenance, a silent vow to press forward despite the odds stacked against him.
