The mirror dimension shuddered violently, its once-flawless surfaces now riddled with cracks that pulsed with a sickly light. Tendrils of corrupted mana slithered through the fractures like serpents, eroding the boundaries the Sword Saint had so carefully forged. From within the largest rift, a procession of dark figures emerged—cultists robed in deep crimson and black, their chanting low and discordant, a twisted hymn that gnawed at the very essence of the realm.
At the edge of the breach, standing apart from the seething mass, Malachi looked on with cold satisfaction. His face, half-hidden beneath a hood adorned with bone trinkets, was unmoving, but his eyes gleamed—sharp and predatory.
For the longest time, he had waited for this opportunity—the opportunity to raid the Sword Saint's lair.
And now that it has finally arrived, Malachi wasn't going to squander it.
'Just a bit more… a bit more and I would get to see you again!'
