The void-forged blade of Varkos came screaming down like the final word of a vengeful god.
It howled through the air, its edge a streak of night-stained lightning, crackling with raw malice—aimed not just to kill, but to annihilate.
The strike promised the end.
But it never landed.
CLAAANG!!!
A deafening clash ripped through the battlefield as blackened steel met abyssal fury. Noctherion had moved—again. As always. As if time itself bent to his will. One of his shadow-clad arms shot up at the perfect angle, catching the monstrous weapon mid-arc. The collision was cataclysmic.
The world shook.
Sparks erupted like dying stars, spraying across the torn earth in brilliant arcs of ghost-fire. The sheer force of the impact sent a low, guttural groan through the stone beneath them. Cracks webbed outward in a violent bloom beneath their feet, like the bones of the world were splintering.
Varkos' blade didn't just stop.
It was stopped.
Unmoving.
