Meanwhile, as the people in Velmoria's capital went about their lives as usual, the view above the clouds was different.
It was burning with madness.
Storms bled crimson. Clouds shredded into ribbons of silver and black.
And between them, two titans clashed, their blows loud enough to make the sky scream.
Crisaius soared in his dragon form—an endless coil of red scales streaked with white. But now, something new shimmered in his claws: two translucent swords of pure spirit light.
They hummed with an ancient resonance, the unmistakable mark of an Imperial-Ranked Knight who had climbed past the tenth level with his swordsmanship.
The demon—a winged mountain of obsidian and shadow—snarled as the blades carved streaks of silver across the blood-red horizon.
It could sense that Crisaius's thunder was special. That thunder was a mark that proved that the old man had climbed past the tenth rank with magic as well.
