The throne room burned with quiet destruction.
Each breath Zero took drew in air heavy with mana and the scent of scorched stone. The world around him was a blur of black flame and collapsing marble—the remnants of Aamon's awakening pressing down on reality itself.
The Devil King stood amid the ruin, crimson aura pulsing like a living heartbeat that warped the air around him. His wings, black and enormous, unfurled behind him like the night sky itself, each movement distorting light and space.
"You're still standing," Aamon said softly, his voice echoing with unholy grace. "After taking a strike meant to erase nations. I should be angry, and yet…"
He smiled—a slow, almost human smile. "I'm impressed."
Zero's hand trembled slightly as he raised his sword again. The fractured blue glow along the blade's edge flickered like dying embers. "Save your compliments," he said coldly. "You're wasting your breath."
