The sky itself bled.
From horizon to horizon, the heavens twisted in agony. Cracks of light—veins of divine energy—ran through the clouds as though the world's own soul was fracturing. Thunder no longer rolled; it screamed. The continent of Edolas shuddered with each collision within the Devil King's palace, where three beings fought for dominion over reality itself.
Kaelion felt the tremor beneath his boots first, a pulse that wasn't mere quake but a heartbeat—enormous, unholy, and alive. His sword wavered in his grip as the golden barrier that shielded the vanguard flickered, then broke apart into streams of dissipating mana.
"Retreat!" Kaelion roared, his voice barely audible through the chaotic storm of crimson lightning tearing across the battlefield. "All units, fall back to the southern ridge!"
