The sky above Astravell smoldered, its once-brilliant blue devoured by a roiling mass of crimson clouds. Ash drifted through the air like dead snow, cool against the warrior's skin as it settled over his battered armor. He stood at the center of the battlefield, surrounded by the remnants of his people—bodies turned to dust beneath his feet. Cities smothered beneath an endless twilight.
They circled him now, the devourers—beautiful as fallen gods but corrupted to their core. Their faces shone with an eerie, otherworldly light, but their smiles were sharp, eyes glowing with a hunger that seemed to swallow everything around them. They moved with a terrible grace, their presence pressing down on the land as though the earth itself mourned their arrival.
One of them stepped forward, his wings unfurling with a deliberate menace. Asmodeus—their general—stood twice the height of a man, his form shifting subtly, like a mirage made flesh. His voice was smooth as silk, laced with a dark amusement.
"You fought well, mortal," Asmodeus said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "But like all the others, your struggle...is meaningless. This world will fall first—then many more."
The warrior's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword—a weapon forged from both steel and something older, something ancient. The blade hummed with a low, resonant pulse, like a heartbeat. Though exhaustion weighed on him like a mountain, he met Asmodeus's gaze, his breath shallow but unwavering.
"I may fall," he said, voice low and resolute, "but another will rise to end you."
Asmodeus's laughter echoed across the desolate plain, cold and jagged, yet the warrior did not flinch. The promise was made, and he knew it would outlast even death.
With a final, defiant roar, he charged, his sword blazing in the twilight—a flickering hope against the dark.