[Several Months Later]
The battlefield was a scene of desolation and death.
The once-vibrant plains had turned into a blood-soaked wasteland under the shroud of perpetual darkness cast by Lucius's aura alone.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of burnt flesh and the metallic tang of blood. Shadows danced ominously across the torn earth, whispering the echoes of the lives lost in the carnage.
Lucius stood at the heart of this devastation, an immovable figure cloaked in flowing black robes, his violet eyes burning like twin embers in the darkness.
His presence was magnetic, exuding an aura of absolute authority and an unshakable confidence that sent chills through even the most hardened soldiers.
Around him, his army of the dead stood victorious—a tide of pale, expressionless soldiers clad in darkened armor. Their forms were shrouded in an unnatural, otherworldly gloom, their silent ranks a stark contrast to the chaos they had wrought.
