The atmosphere in the Swamp Village was electric with tension. Every villager, every soldier, and every ally knew what was coming. The Ironclad Dominion had been relentless, but this final wave would determine the fate of the village. Ashen stood atop the central tower, surveying the battlefield. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the faint metallic tang of blood. His body was weary, but his resolve was ironclad.
In the distance, the enemy forces began to gather, their movements a well-oiled machine of discipline and power. At the center of their formation stood a figure unlike any other—a man whose presence seemed to warp the very air around him. His armor was a blackened steel that absorbed light, making him appear as a moving shadow. His helm, adorned with the sigil of the Ironclad Dominion, hid his face, but his eyes glowed a sinister red from within the visor.
