The lowland was eerily quiet, the jagged mountains towering above like silent sentinels, their sharp edges cutting into the blood-red sky.
The air was thick with the oppressive weight of chaos, swirling in ominous currents that seemed to twist the very fabric of reality.
The ground beneath Spectre's boots cracked and groaned under the immense pressure, the atmosphere itself a battleground of untold power.
Spectre's katana gleamed in the dim light, his grip firm, his stance perfect.
He was surrounded by the remnants of his fellow students, who fought valiantly but were already outclassed by the overwhelming number of demons.
Demons of all ranks—F to SSS—moved in a coordinated assault, their bloodshot eyes gleaming with malice.
They all had been fighting for over an hour now with no sign of the enemies number dwindling.
But Spectre was focused on one target: Kush.
Kush stood with an air of utmost casual arrogance.
