As the battle raged on, the atmosphere grew thick with tension and the acrid scent of ozone. Lightning crackled in the distance, illuminating the blood-soaked battlefield where steel clashed against steel, and magic tore through the earth. Count Gregor, standing atop the command post, surveyed the carnage with a chilling smile. His ambition, long contained behind a mask of patience, now burned unchecked in his eyes. The time had come.
His gloved hands reached for the ancient chest before him, its ebony seals pulsating with an ominous glow. A low, guttural hum filled the air as he unlatched it, unleashing a surge of dark, curse-laden energy. Shadows writhed and coiled around him, whispering secrets of devastation. The moment his fingers closed around the Umbral Doomstaff, a deafening shockwave erupted, sending tendrils of corruption slithering through the sky.
