There, looming before him in the chaos, was the shape of a man—or something that resembled a man, its form colossal and ever-shifting. Jolthar's mind screamed as he recognized it. The aura, the rage—it was the spirit of his predecessor, the one who had wielded Chaosbane before him. He was sure of it. His predecessor had returned, a manifestation of the sword's fury, and it was angry—furiously so.
Jolthar reached out with his mind, trying to make contact, but the shadow roared, a sound that rattled the very core of his being. The earth shuddered violently beneath them, as if the world itself feared the power that now stood before him. It was the Wrath of the Chaosbane; surprised, Jolthar tried to feel its emotions.
The onlookers, watching from a distance, were frozen, their bodies stiff with terror. None could move, and none could speak. The air was thick with the weight of the chaos, and it was all they could do to stand in place, too paralyzed to even breathe properly.
