The wind howled through the shattered cathedral, carrying with it the echoes of forgotten prayers. Broken glass shimmered like frozen tears on the marble floor. Once, this place had been holy—a refuge of light and faith. Now, it was a battlefield between man and sin.
Eryndor stood at the center, his body bruised, his sword cracked, his spirit burning. Before him towered Lucenthar, the Devil of Pride, clothed in radiance so blinding it mocked the sun. His armor was molten gold; his wings were not feathered but made of mirror shards, each reflecting Eryndor's trembling face from a thousand angles.
"You have come far, mortal," the Devil said, his voice smooth as silk over steel. "But every step was drenched in arrogance. Tell me, what makes you think you can kill Pride itself?"
