The battlefield was eerily silent now, save for the faint whisper of the wind carrying the scent of ash and blood. The Demon King's lifeless body lay in a heap, his enormous wings sprawled across the ground like a fallen storm. Peras stood above him, gripping the sword Curses tightly, its dark energy coursing through him, filling him with a sense of invincibility. Yet there was something else—a faint unease curling at the edges of his mind, like the shadow of a predator waiting to strike.
From the shadows of the crumbling citadel, a slow, deliberate applause echoed. The sound was soft yet carried a weight of mockery, each clap dripping with sardonic amusement. Peras stiffened, his grip on Curses tightening as he turned toward the sound.
