At the foot of the hill, silence reigned, broken only by the labored breaths of the Evil Cult captain.
The battlefield, once filled with clashing steel and the roar of combat, now resembled a graveyard.
Bodies lay scattered like broken dolls, their lifeless forms bathed in the eerie glow of the setting sun.
The captain, the last survivor of his men, groaned as he lay on the cold ground. His once-imposing weapon, a broadsword infused with mechanical power, was now covered in cracks.
His titanium-enhanced body, designed to withstand even the most brutal attacks, had not fared much better.
Dents and deep fissures marred his metallic limbs, and where flesh remained, a gaping wound stretched across his chest, exposing torn muscle and shattered bones.
His few remaining innards were visible, and blood flowed from the wound like a broken dam, pooling beneath him.
