Kell stood up, his body trembling under the weight of exhaustion. His legs threatened to buckle, forcing him to lean heavily on his sword—a blade chipped and stained with the lifeblood of countless foes. His body was a canvas of battle, covered in deep scars, fresh wounds, and the grotesque burn that had consumed most of his left arm.
The air was thick with the scent of blood and charred flesh, the battlefield stretching endlessly beneath the eerie glow of a crimson moon. Torn banners fluttered weakly in the cold night breeze, whispering like dying breaths. The land itself groaned, soaked in death, its soil darkened by the blood of warriors and monsters alike.
A deep, authoritative voice thundered across the night.
"In the name of the divine, we are here to end you. There is no escape. No one shall save you—not even the gods. Your death is written in fate."
At these words, Kell let out a laugh—low, ragged, and growing into a manic crescendo.
"Ha… Ha… Ha… Ha…"
His long white hair, matted with dirt and blood, swayed with the wind, framing his sharp, hollow face. His shoulders shook—not with fear, but with amusement. He suddenly stopped laughing, his lips curling into a sinister, mocking grin. His empty gaze pierced through the army before him, black as the abyss, void of light, void of life.
A lone wolf howled in the distance, its sorrowful cry carried across the battlefield by the whispering wind. The rhythm of nature itself seemed to pulse in eerie harmony with Kell's presence. The air grew heavier, thick with an unseen force—something unnatural, something wrong.
Kell raised his head, his unfathomable gaze sweeping across the mass of warriors. Thousands. No, even more. An army. Their ranks stretched as far as his sight could reach. Among them stood monstrous figures of power—Immortal Peak Masters, their very existence bending the natural laws. Beside them, silent and still, were those who had ascended beyond mortality—Soul Divine Lords, beings of unfathomable might.
And yet, none dared to move.
For even in their great numbers, even with their divine power, they felt it—the abyss staring back at them.
Under the gentle wind and a clear sky, surrounded by towering mountain peaks, Kell began to chant in an ancient tongue. As his voice carried through the air, his long white hair shimmered under the crimson moonlight, and his black robe billowed in the wind.
An elderly man watching from afar gasped, his eyes widening in shock. "This... This is the forbidden and forgotten tongue! How can you know this? Only a handful of people in history have ever learned it. Even knowing of its existence is taboo!"
Another elder muttered in disbelief. "Has he lost his mind? We must stop him before he completes the chant!"
As the words left his mouth, the once gentle breeze turned into a violent gale. The clear crimson moon began to fade, swallowed by dark, grim clouds. The mountain peaks were slowly enveloped in an eerie fog, creeping like a living force.
Then, without warning, an ominous presence descended upon the battlefield—a force so overwhelming that half of the warriors instantly collapsed, unconscious. The remaining half struggled to remain standing, their faces pale with fear.
For a brief moment, Kell was shocked. Then, despite his weakening body, he smirked—his final act of defiance. With his last, dying breath, his vision darkened, and he slowly lost consciousness.
in a mysterious place, a figure clad in black sat upon a grand throne, his presence looming like a shadow over the unknown realm.