The massacre spread through the heart of Jax's kingdom.
Temples burned, his followers bled in the streets, rivers ran red with corpses.
The screams of the dying echoed even inside the golden cathedral.
Jax rose from his throne, fury blazing in his eyes. His voice thundered like a storm:
"Enough!"
He raised his hand, and eight silhouettes knelt before him. Eight women bowed their heads in silence.
They were not ordinary warriors. They were his disciples.
Chosen. Trained by his own hands. Fed day after day with his milk, filled to the brim through their holes, overflowing with the divine essence Jax had gifted them. Every drop of power inside them carried his mark.
The temple maidens approached, trembling. Only they were allowed to touch the disciples. With delicate fingers they dressed them in armors forged by Jax himself, living armors, pulsing with power, created for them alone.
When the last clasp was sealed, Jax's voice roared:
