The once grand throne room of Endless was gone—torn apart by the sheer weight of colliding powers. What remained was a shattered foundation of stone and ash, walls ripped apart into jagged ruins, the sky above exposed as though even the heavens had abandoned the place. And within that ruin, two storms raged.
Kael Dragonyx. Alen the Dark Magi.
The former stood tall, his lightning-forged sword thrumming with draconic might, arcs of blue-white electricity dancing around him, splitting the air with violent snaps. The latter, Alen, shrouded in a void-black cloak, his staff raised high, weaving threads of abyssal magic that bent light, sound, even reality itself.
And before them stood the warriors of Eldoria, battered yet unbroken.
Kelvin, the heir of chaos, Abyssal Scythe gripped tight in his hand, his eyes glowing with a dark purple hue as strands of chaos energy rippled from his veins.