"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!"
"BOOOOOMMM!"
"BOOM BOOM BOOM!"
"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"
The battlefield around the Primordial God's tomb thundered with one explosion after another. Vlad and Metatron clashed with a ferocity that tore everything around them, their duel becoming a storm of destruction too vast for mortal comprehension.
The body of the True Depravita of Wrath was ripped apart again and again, each piece reforming in bursts of red psychic power as his immortal constitution regenerated. Metatron, by contrast, did not rely on regeneration—his flesh and blood simply refused to yield. Despite hundreds of full-power sword strikes carving across his form, he stood firm. The radiant durability granted by Durendal defied death itself.
Yet even as their titanic figures clashed across the skies with power that could level worlds, it became clear the end was drawing near.
