The skyline of Veleria, once an epitome of grandeur and opulence, painted a woeful picture. The towers that once gleamed with gold now cast ominous shadows. The markets, once bustling with life, were silent, but a different sort of storm was brewing – the storm of war.
At the forefront of this dark tempest stood Lucius, an ancient demon god disguised in human form. Every step he took was measured, every gaze deliberate. Behind him, his generals, Aleron, Atrius, and Tryn, followed. Clad in armor but without helmets, they bore an expression of dread and resignation. These were men torn apart by loyalty and duty, for they once served Lysandria Empire with pride.
Lucius, without a word, unleashed a cataclysmic force that shattered Veleria's gates. Stone and metal flew, turning into deadly projectiles, piercing through innocent bystanders. Among the casualties was a young boy, barely seven, holding onto a wooden toy knight, symbolizing the dreams that would never see fruition.
As the Eternal Empire soldiers marched in, chaos ensued. With helmets obscuring their faces, they were not just men but harbingers of death. Their dark ore armor, with an arcane crystal at its core, shimmered menacingly. They cut down everything in their path – from defiant soldiers to screaming civilians. In one corner, a group of soldiers, fueled by desperation and liquor, turned on the vulnerable, looting and violating as they wished. One woman, her clothes torn, her dignity shattered, looked on with hollow eyes, her spirit crushed under the weight of betrayal by her own protectors.
The generals of Lysandria stood their ground. General Mortik, eyes ablaze with fury, clashed swords with Aleron. Every strike, every parry screamed of betrayal. "How could you turn on your own, Aleron?" Mortik bellowed amidst the clash of steel. Aleron, tears in his eyes, whispered back, "I'm doing what needs to be done."
Nearby, Elandor, with grace and poise, danced a lethal waltz with Atrius. Their battlefield was a garden, once full of life, now trampled and scorched. Elandor, twirling his blade, dodged a deadly spell, only to witness a stray blast reducing a hiding mother and child to cinders. He screamed, a primal sound of anguish, charging at Atrius with renewed vigor. Their fight, intense and visceral, left no room for mercy.
General Torian, though weakened from his previous confrontation with Lucius, was fueled by pure hatred. His eyes, filled with the fire of vengeance, sought out his nemesis. Spotting him, Torian roared, "This ends now, demon!" Lucius, amused, responded with a smile, "Your spirit is admirable, but futile." With that, chains of dark energy ensnared Torian, draining his life essence. But even as his life faded, his eyes never left Lucius, filled with undying hatred.
Inside the palace, Draken, the last beacon of hope for Lysandria, awaited his fate. The once mighty hall resonated with his heavy breathing. Lucius entered, the aura around him stifling. Their conversation was short but heavy. Draken, in a final act of defiance, spat at Lucius's feet, "You may claim our land, but never our spirit." Lucius simply chuckled, extending his hand, from which black and red tendrils emerged, wrapping around Draken. The emperor's anguished screams echoed as his very soul was torn from him.
When night fell, a deafening silence cloaked Veleria. The streets, once full of laughter, now flowed with rivers of blood. The buildings bore scars of the day's horrors. Children's toys, trinkets of love, and symbols of hope lay abandoned. And above all, the Eternal Empire's banners, with the red phoenix, hung mockingly over the city, signaling Veleria's darkest day. The heart of Lysandria had been cruelly ripped out. The empire was no more.