A wasteland of shattered obsidian and drifting ash, where the horizon burned red from the reflection of endless fire.
The earth itself groaned under the weight of war.
Each step cracked the scorched ground like thin glass. The air smelled of iron, smoke, and mana discharge.
It was the final battlefield.
And it was hell.
The first bombardments came before sunrise. The northern airships—sleek, black-plated vessels—screamed overhead, their cannons spitting white-blue mana shells that split the air with thunderclaps. Central and Southern defenses flared in retaliation, holy light erupting from cathedral-like engines stationed along the ridges.
In seconds, the skies were chaos.
Two airships collided midair, exploding in a burning rain of debris. The bodies of soldiers fell like meteors, streaking trails of fire. On the ground, ranks of armored men shouted and charged, their banners drowned in flame.
And in the heart of it all—Noah stood.
