The abyss howled under the strain of their war. The ocean of chains raged like a living storm, regenerating faster than Asher could cut—but his will only grew fiercer. Each swing of his scythe wasn't merely destruction; it was reclamation. Every chain he corroded, every weapon he broke, every shackle he shattered—their essence bled into his Dominion, feeding the crimson sea swelling beneath his feet.
The ground cracked open, and from it rose pillars of bloodlight—monolithic veins that pulsed with his rhythm. They speared upward, tearing through the iron flood, splitting its tides apart like mountains emerging from a storming sea. Rust rained down in waves. The chains that once filled the abyss now tangled and fell, heavy with corrosion, unable to reform fast enough to cage him again.
But the ocean refused to die quietly.
