Seraphine, not just a city but the primary headquarters on the main continent, echoed with the hushed murmurs of the gathered commanders and officials. Within the heart of this administrative center, Lucius's composed demeanor hid the scars of a bygone battle against the Archangels, one that had deeply wounded his soul.
However, in a heart-stopping moment, dark, viscous blood began to seep from Lucius's eyes, then his ears, and finally trickled from his nostrils. It dripped onto the cold, unyielding marble floor, each droplet creating an echoing silence more deafening than the previous. The officials, paralyzed by the sight, dared not breathe, their reverence for him so profound that they couldn't fathom his suffering.
In a flash of dark energy, Lucius transported himself to Clavis's hidden underground chamber. Towering before him, bathed in a sinister red hue, stood the massive arcane crystal. It throbbed with power, a prison of countless souls and their accompanying blood essence.
With evident desperation, Lucius pressed his palm against its rough surface. Streams of potent energy spiraled into him, each pulse seeking to mend the profound damage to his soul. His eyes, already a deep crimson, flared with increasing intensity, mirroring the desperate battle within. But, agonizingly, even as waves of power from the crystal surged through him, they seemed to merely caress the gashes in his soul rather than heal them. The depth of his injuries, it appeared, were beyond even such immense arcane might.
Upon his return to Seraphine, the weight of urgency in Lucius's voice was palpable. "Marshal Tryn, Admiral Rion, attend me immediately!" They rushed to his side without delay.
Lucius's words were direct and foreboding, "Marshal, mobilize our troops. We shall bring war to every neighboring nation. And ensure that every division and general from Lysandria is relocated here with utmost haste."
Marshal Tryn, a seasoned warrior, couldn't mask his anxiety. "My Emperor, instigating conflicts on multiple fronts with numerous nations is a gamble of the highest stakes. Furthermore, drawing forces from Lysandria may compromise the defense of our heartland."
But before Tryn could continue, Lucius's hand had encircled his throat, hoisting him into the air with a terrifying ease. Lucius's eyes bore into Tryn's, and his voice, cold and unforgiving, thundered, "My edicts are law, and they will not be debated."
Struggling to breathe, Tryn managed to rasp, "Your will be done, Emperor."
Releasing the Marshal, Lucius gazed out at the vast horizon. Soon, the dark-armored soldiers began assembling, the iconic phoenix-adorned banners casting long shadows on the grounds of Seraphine.
The once-proud cities of the Vladovian Dynasty, symbols of regal supremacy, now stood at the precipice of doom. As twilight veiled the landscape, Lucius, adorned in opulent dark attire, emerged, each fold of his garment seemingly drenched in the wails of devoured souls.
His fading red eyes, ignited by an insatiable thirst, heralded the onset of annihilation. With an unholy smirk, he unleashed tendrils of crimson and obsidian lightning. These were not just instruments of destruction but conduits of absorption, eagerly draining the souls and blood energies of those unfortunate enough to be touched. Wherever they struck, the realm was transformed into a grotesque tableau of carnage, where molten flesh, curdling screams, and the overpowering stench of ruptured life dominated.
Amidst the ensuing chaos, a mother clutched her child, but in a flash, both were consumed by the lightning, their souls and energies violently ripped out, leaving behind a grotesque silhouette of charred remains.
With the impending terror evident, the Dynasty's vast army formed a defensive front. But Lucius, drawing from the Primordial Chaos energy of his very soul, unleashed an even darker terror. From the abyss surrounding him, tens of thousands of tendrils sprang forth. Each tendril was an incarnation of horror itself, adorned with monstrous eyes that stared, unblinkingly, exuding malevolence.
The sheer dread rendered many soldiers paralyzed. "What... what sorcery is this?" one stammered, his voice dripping with terror. Another, eyes wide and lips quivering, murmured disjointed prayers, hoping for divine intervention.
King Vardan, with the weight of vengeance heavy on his shoulders, bellowed, "Lucius, you monster! For Igor's blood, I will bring you to justice!" But as he conjured his most potent spells, the overwhelming grotesqueness of the battlefield seemed to mock his attempts.
The tendrils, ever ravenous, descended upon the army with an unmatched brutality. Soldiers were impaled, their very essence siphoned off in torrents of blood and soul. Bodies were eviscerated, entrails dangling grotesquely, heads rolled with expressions of sheer horror frozen on them.
Vardan, even with his unmatched prowess, soon found himself ensnared. Tendrils pierced him, extracting his life force in a violent display, leaving the once mighty king a drained, mangled husk.
Floating above the apocalyptic scene, Lucius's thirst was still evident in his now brighter, yet still desperate, glowing eyes. Each soul consumed, each drop of blood energy absorbed, was but a drop in the vast ocean of his hunger. The nightmarish remnants of the Vladovian Dynasty, with the countless eyes of the tendrils ever watchful, stood as a grim testament to the boundless horror of Lucius.