"You don't even know what you're fighting for, yet you keep standing against me," Asmodeus muttered, his voice low and grim, like thunder in the distance.
He raised his black trident, its three jagged tips glowing with a deep, molten red as if forged from hatred itself.
"But I'm done with the pretense. Let's end this here."
Sam didn't respond. He simply stared.
He was used to analyzing his opponents the moment he stepped onto the battlefield, and Asmodeus was no different.
The [Forsaken Lord] stood tall at around two meters, his body a living furnace of blackened crimson skin that pulsed with power with every breath.
His entire presence radiated something beyond just magic, something deeper, more ancient, a pressure that coiled around the soul and threatened to snap it.
Dark flames circled his body like living snakes, each one a barrier, each one a warning.
