The continent of Thundros Spirelands—a land of eternal storms.
Lightning clawed across obsidian peaks, thunder rolled through ravines carved by centuries of rage, and the scent of scorched air clung to every living thing.
In the heart of this tempest stood the small outpost village of Thodero, its stone walls trembling beneath a sky that refused to sleep.
Smoke coiled upward from a recent battle, the ground cracked and steaming.
Ten Crimson Veinwalkers—elite warriors clad in scarlet-threaded armor—stood in formation, blades drawn, eyes locked on the figure before them.
"You bastard! Who are you?!" one of them shouted, voice ragged with fear.
The intruder didn't answer immediately.
He stood in the open storm, the wind tugging at his coat, the rain painting his face in streaks of shadow and flame.
Pink, wolf-cut hair fell over eyes that glowed orange, red, and black, swirling together like
molten stars in a dying sun.
