The world no longer knew silence. Thunder cracked through skies stitched together by madness, each bolt a scream of fractured reality. The winds howled with the voices of the dead, their cries weaving through the air like a chorus of lost souls. Mountains floated in midair, held aloft by threads of Lucien's unstable gravitational field, their jagged peaks glowing with an eerie, crimson light. The battlefield was a canvas of chaos, the ground shattered into prismatic shards, the air thick with the scent of blood and ozone.
Across the desolate plain stood MOR'TALIX, The Forgotten Architect. His body defied physics—a towering amalgam of black tentacles woven with entropy and splintered light, each finger crackling with runes written in languages that hadn't existed for eons. His face was a shifting void, a vortex where stars went to die, their light snuffed out by his presence. His very existence was a violation of reality, a wound that bled chaos into the world.
