As the dust settled, an eerie silence descended upon the land. The air was thick with the aftermath of destruction, an oppressive stillness that clung to every surface. Slowly, figures began to emerge from the shadows and rubble.
Apollo and the other trialists, bruised and battered, stood alongside the Blood King. Their eyes were wide, reflecting a mixture of horror and awe. They gazed upward, where the calm, levitating figure of God Anaric hovered in the sky. He exuded an aura of unassailable power, his demeanour as tranquil as a calm sea, untouched by the mass slaughter he had just enacted.
There wasn't a hint of remorse or satisfaction in his expression, only a cold indifference as if the act of ending millions of lives was as trivial as breathing.
