The voice echoed through the temple, a chilling whisper that sent shivers down their spines. It was the voice of Malachi, the dark sorcerer, his presence palpable in the air. The Order stood frozen, their weapons drawn, their hearts pounding in their chests.
A figure emerged from the shadows, a tall, imposing man with eyes that glowed an unnatural red. It was Malachi, more terrifying in person than in legend. His presence was a vortex of darkness, a consuming force that threatened to engulf everything in its path.
"You have come," Malachi repeated, his voice laced with contempt. "Foolish mortals, seeking to defy the inevitable."
A battle ensued, a clash of light and darkness. The Order fought with a ferocity born of desperation. Roman, fueled by a righteous anger, unleashed the full extent of his powers. But Malachi was a formidable opponent, his magic black and corrupting.
The temple shook with the force of their clash. The air crackled with energy, and the ground trembled beneath their feet.The Order fought valiantly, but they were overwhelmed. One by one, they fell, their bodies lifeless on the temple floor.
Roman stood alone, surrounded by the fallen. His body ached, his energy depleted. Yet, he refused to surrender. He remembered the prophecy, the hope that he was the chosen one. With a final surge of determination, he channeled all his remaining energy into a single, devastating attack.
The clash of their powers was cataclysmic. The temple shook violently, its structure crumbling around them. When the dust settled, Malachi was gone, vanished without a trace. But so too was Roman, lost in the chaos of the collapsing temple.
The fate of the world hung in the balance.