Three figures stood upon the obsidian hull of the immortal warship.
One unfurled devilish wings. Black battle aura roared from him, a frenzy of combat intent boiling off his body.
Another stood wreathed in suspended weapons, a hundred phantom blades orbiting his back. His eyes were cold and hollow, yet the pressure he exuded rose like a tide.
"Humanoid weapons… no. Awakened armaments. Eternals," Damiron breathed, shaken. "Their intensity is far beyond common Gods. They are close to Lower God tier."
The knight-godspawn's shield hand trembled. A fear he could not name crawled down every nerve.
Between them, an elderly man with a staff stood quiet and still.
He was lean and spare, white hair and beard drifting in the lunar breeze, silver like fresh snow. He had the look of a kindly sage, Gandalf reborn in wrinkles and wanderlight. But the eyes, those eyes, burned with a killing will as deep as the void.
