The night trembled.
From the skies above the burning forest, the shrieks and laughter of cultists echoed like the cries of the damned. Their black banners waved beneath the dying light of the World Tree, its sacred glow smothered by the red haze of blood and flame.
Below, hundreds of them danced in madness—mages weaving corrupted spells that scorched the air, their energies twisting into grotesque shapes as they aimed at the sky.
High above that chaos, the Kunpeng soared through the smoke. Its massive wings shimmered with silver-blue light, scattering the darkness for fleeting moments. Upon its back stood the last of the Dark Elves—tired, wounded, but unbroken—as they gazed down upon the sea of corruption below.
Luca stood at the forefront, his coat torn and blood-soaked, strands of dark violet hair drifting in the cold wind. His eyes—crimson and unwavering—cut through the night like twin blades of fire.
