While Dreadlord clashed steel and shadow with Varkos—two monsters locked in brutal ballet—Sylen's focus shifted.
His eyes, pale and sharp like blades dipped in silver, scanned the battlefield behind, and what he saw rattled him.
Cracks still pulsed across the shattered floor of the arena—lines of molten ember that glowed like veins of a dying world.
They shimmered faintly, whispering the aftermath of something far beyond explosive.
No. This hadn't been mere destruction.
This had been precision. A dissection.
A single attack from Alex, and entire legions of Sylen's summons had been obliterated.
Like brittle ash swept off glass.
His whole squads—mages, bestial shadows, armored death knights—gone.
What remained were fragments. Survivors in the loosest sense. A beast without its lower jaw, twitching in confusion. A knight dragging a half-torso across the ruin, its blade clutched in a fingerless hand.
