The air was unnervingly still after Alen's form was erased. Not slain, not shattered, not even torn apart—erased, as though his existence had been judged unworthy by something beyond comprehension. The afterimage of his last scream clung to the atmosphere, like a scar no one wanted to acknowledge.
And then… silence.
Every gaze turned to the figure who had done it. Aegon. The crimson dragon that had taken root in Christopher's body. His aura pulsed like an ancient heartbeat, slow but overwhelming, each thrum shaking the battlefield to its bones. His scales shimmered in blood-red luminance, his eyes void of mercy, yet filled with a dreadful sovereignty that made even the Celestials hesitate.
It was at that moment, standing before his terrible majesty, that the same thought gnawed at every single survivor's heart:
Friend… or foe?
