The battlefield was a storm of chaos—night skies rent apart by bolts of lightning, clashing steel ringing through the air, and the anguished cries of the injured filling the spaces between. The air smelled of blood and ash, a testament to the relentless war between light and darkness. Amidst this maelstrom, Daniel stood firm, his silver armor gleaming like a beacon of hope against the despair around him. His purple aura swirled violently, a storm barely contained, threatening to break loose with devastating force. Across from him, the Dark Winged-Hand Demon towered, his grey aura exuding death and decay like a miasma. His twisted grin betrayed both pride and malice.
"You will fall today, knight," the demon growled, his voice a guttural echo that resonated with unnatural power.
Daniel clenched his sword tightly, his voice resolute and unwavering. "God of Matter, guide me through this trial."
