Sylen screamed.
A soul-shattering roar tore from his throat—raw, primal, jagged.
It echoed through the crumbling arena, piercing the very air like a sonic blade. The sky itself seemed to recoil as his voice cracked through the heavens.
Flames danced violently atop his skull—no longer fire, but a sentient, cursed entity writhing with malevolent hunger.
The black blaze twisted upward in serpentine arcs, coiling like devouring spirits that licked the heavens, only to curl back and consume their host from the inside.
It was a fire that didn't just burn flesh—but also essence.
Sylen's essence.
His death aura, once a regal tide of shadowy dominion, had lost its rhythm. It now surged in chaotic pulses, waves lashing outward like a beast in a death spiral.
The ground warped beneath his feet. Cracks tore through the stone like veins of molten hatred.
And at the center of it all—his spectral armor, the hollow shell of Noctherion—shuddered.
