The horizon burned crimson. A storm of ash and fire swept across the blackened plains where the Holy City once gleamed in the distance. But the Arena—now twisted, warped, and buried in a dome of black flame—was no longer part of that world. It hung like a scar against the horizon, its structure swallowed by the expanding maw of the Devils' Domain.
Darien stumbled across the charred soil, the sacred relic clasped tightly in his arm, his armor cracked and streaked with divine light that refused to fade. Every breath he took seared his lungs. The land itself rejected him—rejected anything human.
He didn't know how long he'd been running. Only that the air had grown colder, the cries of the devils had faded behind him, and the light of the Pope's barrier still shimmered far off—barely visible through the smoke.
"…Father…" he muttered under his breath, his steps slowing. "Please tell me it wasn't for nothing."
