The moment the ash shifted, Asher knew: this battle would be unlike any other. The air twisted not with mere heat or death—but hunger. Primordial. Endless.
Zar-Kethel did not rise in the traditional sense. He unfolded.
His body, a cathedral of gluttony, ascended from the cracked black stone, groaning with bound souls and devoured names. Chains dangled from his spine like tendrils, each link etched with devoured oaths, forgotten truths, and silenced legacies. His torso split open like a maw, dozens of mouths writhing inside it—each one screaming with a different voice, a different era, a different agony.
And all of them saw Asher.
"You smell like power. Like marrow. Like memory."
The Saint's voice came not from a single mouth, but from all of them, overlapping in a chorus of want.
Asher stepped forward. "Pity." as he tilted his head and looked at him " You will die feeling hungry"
He took out his sword.
Sanguine Supreme: First Vein — Crimson Initiate.
The land groaned.
