The Wrath of Dire: Endgame at Silver City
The night didn't just break—it screamed apart with a roar of molten fury.
The ground buckled like it had taken a punch from some furious god. And out of that hellfire, he stepped—General Dire. But this wasn't the man they once knew. He wasn't even a man anymore. Whatever humanity he'd had... it burned away. What stood now was fire and rage stitched into a walking corpse of heat. His whole form throbbed with raw energy, warped and fused with living magma. Every limb looked sculpted from living flame and twisted stone, brutal and hulking, but moving— slow, deliberate, violent.
And his skin—if that word even fit anymore— It was split wide with jagged, glowing cracks.
Veins of lava ran through him, pulsing hot and red like some nightmare heart still beating, and from every joint, thick globs of molten blood oozed out— slow, hissing, steaming— like the earth itself was bleeding through him, drop by heavy drop.
