Torin, warrior of Linsinth, awoke to find his world shattered.
Agony coursed through his body, each wave of torment was a cruel reminder of his mortal limitations, as if the gods themselves had conspired to break him. His eyes were bloodshot and desperate, and they sought any sign of the catastrophe that had led to his downfall.
Each breath was a Herculean effort, his lungs burning, his armor pressing down on him with the weight of a thousand unfulfilled promises. The once-gleaming plates now felt like the shackles of a damned soul.
He crawled, inch by agonizing inch, toward his claymore, the symbol of his fleeting hope. His bloody fingers trembled and reached for the hilt, feeling the pain strike him as each finger curled around it.
He was destined to fail, to fall into the abyss of obscurity. The Linsinth had never seen him as more than a disposable pawn, a tool crafted for their convenience and destined for the scrap heap. Today, his blood would mingle with the ashes of his homeland.
Flames roared around him, a crackling show of despair that painted the sky in hues of orange and red. He rolled to his side, a violent fit of coughing tearing through him, expelling a torrent of blood.
The ground around him was a canvas of carnage, littered with the grotesque remains of the invasion. Horrid, nightmarish creatures had descended upon his world, their forms were twisted and terrifying, sowing chaos with every step.
He watched as bodies were split apart, blood spraying onto the green grass and the screams of man, woman, and child.
Torin was just a simple townsman, thrust into the maw of war by the cruel machinations of The Order. There was only so much he could do, a man untested by the forge of battle, now forced to face the unimaginable. What could he do?
A monstrous foot stomped before him, shaking Cinder with its arrival. The creature's skin was a ugly shade of red, veins bulging like writhing worms. Torin could only look up, his vision swimming.
"Lost warrior, your end meets you today," the creature proclaimed, its voice a harsh, grating sound that echoed with unholy power.
They could speak? These otherworldly abominations had the gall to speak his language, the very tongue of the people they were slaughtering.
The audacity of it infuriated Torin.
The flames around him danced like malicious spirits, their fiery fingers licking at the ruins of his world.
With a desperate surge of strength, he reached out and grasped the hilt of his claymore. Every ounce of his remaining energy was funneled into a single, defiant swing.
The blade arced through the air, finding purchase in the creature's abdomen. A scream erupted from its maw, a sound that pierced the heavens, as dark purple ichor sprayed forth, dousing Torin in the creature's viscera.
The creature's guts spilled out like long ropes, slithering onto the ground in a sickening display. Torin's face remained stoic, his voice lost to the strain of endless battle cries.
He reared back, summoning the last vestiges of his strength, and drove the claymore forward, piercing the creature's heart with unerring precision.
The devil staggered, its monstrous form swaying like a felled tree, before collapsing with a final, world-shaking thud. A small shockwave rippled out from its fallen body.
Torin stood amidst the wreckage, bloodied but unbowed, a warrior who had defied the odds, even if just for a moment.
Torin had slain one of many, but the battle was far from over. He no longer fought for Linsinth, but for his own life and the lives of those who still drew breath alongside him.
The weight of survival pressed heavily on his shoulders, a burden he bore with determination.
A deafening boom echoed across the sky, a sound so intense it felt like a wild bomb had detonated nearby.
Torin's head snapped toward the source, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. His skin prickled with a fear so raw it almost paralyzed him.
Before him, the clouds began to part, disintegrating under the sheer force that tore through the atmosphere. The figure that emerged was tall and dark.
A menacing silhouette that blasted through the heavens and crashed into a distant mountain with force so strong any in the area would have been crushed to death.
The rocky behemoth was obliterated, reduced to mere pebbles, and the debris swirled around like a violent hurricane.
Torin's legs buckled, his control slipping away as the sheer power of the figure carved its name into the world, sending shockwaves of fire and destruction in every direction.
He fell to the ground, his body trembling, and looked up to see the figure standing atop the ruined mountain, glaring down at him with eyes that seemed to scorch his very soul.
Torin was utterly paralyzed, a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The man's stature was immense, towering beyond the height of any ordinary human. His lean, sinewy muscles were accentuated by gold-plated armor that glistened in the chaotic light.
A golden mask with intricate engravings covered half his face, and his scarlet eyes burned and his hair, a river of blood-red, flowed down to his back, swaying with the dusty wind like a sinister banner.
"You mortals have fallen for the final time," the figure declared, his voice booming like the pronouncement of a terrifying fate. It echoed across the land, reaching every man, woman, and child not yet turned to ash.
"This world's form and body... mangled. Your blood, drenched," his voice grew louder.
A spear shot out from the red cape behind his armor, a weapon unlike any other, a tool of death far superior, a Harbinger of doom. The long, lethal weapon glinted with a tainted red liquid at the tip.
"I have outsmarted... Even God,"
He was ready to cast misery upon the world.
"I am Altheron, Devastation, Apostle of War! And... This planet has met its end." His voice was a cacophony of dread and finality.
The spear struck, and Torin's vision was consumed by darkness.