At this moment, the sky over the mortal realm was no longer a canopy of stars, but was now a shattered mirror, a jagged, weeping fissure that bled the grey rot of the outer ones into the atmosphere.
Below this celestial wound, the ruins of the world smoldered. The Silent Wailers—those pale, infant-like anomalies of the void—poured from the crack in a relentless, cascading waterfall of non-existence.
Herios, his armor cracked and his breath coming in ragged gasps, stood amidst a field of obsidian shards.
Beside him, the Queen of Shadows, Scáthach, leaned on her twin spears, her crimson eyes reflecting the carnage of a war that had no end in sight.
Medusa, having turned into a her partial Monster form, have her serpent-hair hissing in a state of high-alert, while she gripped her daggers with white-knuckled intensity.
"How ugly, these creatures really are tarnishing my garden!"
Just then, a voice boomed as above them, a golden streak of light cut through the gloom.
