The darkened sky loomed over Lucius's stronghold as his forces assembled in perfect ranks below. The air was thick with the oppressive weight of his aura, amplified by the activation of [Death Promotion].
Each soldier, whether a Heretic Vassal or a lesser undead, stood taller and stronger, their forms rippling with newfound power.
The results of the power were evident: his army had transcended their prior limitations, becoming a force unlike any other.
Lucius hovered above the army, his dark armor faintly glowing with residual energy from the immense strain of the promotion.
His breathing was calm, but inside, he could feel the toll.
Only half his full power remained, a dangerous limit given the potential confrontation ahead.
He clenched his fists, reassured by the thought that he had faced and killed Seraphiel with far less.
