The wind carried the faint scent of burning iron. Cain stood at the heart of what had once been a sanctum, now nothing more than a pit of molten stone and shattered runes. The sky bled gold from cracks torn across its surface — remnants of celestial wards that once protected the realm from what now stirred below.
He exhaled, breath ragged, chest heaving with exhaustion. His right arm still smoked from overuse, golden veins pulsing violently as the residual power of {Golden Tyrant} tried to devour his own mana to sustain itself. He forced it down. The weapon whined, flickering in and out of shape before stabilizing again.
Around him, a dozen corpses of angels lay strewn across the obsidian floor. Their once-radiant halos dimmed into pale iron bands. He didn't look at them for long. Mercy had no place here.
