High above the shattered Cenotaph Wild Lands, the air was tense enough to slice apart a Dharma King.
The words Achilles had spoken moments ago still echoed like a challenge, but the presence before him now made even the air itself feel dense and wrong.
The figure of shadow had not moved. Not truly. But now, its form became just a little more clear.
It was shaped like a man. A tall one, regal in posture. Dashing, even, with a strong jawline and defined cheekbones. But his entire body was composed of pure, flowing darkness.
Shadows coiled around him like smoke, his hair a crown of midnight tendrils that moved without wind. His face, while handsome, held no warmth. Just a void that swallowed light.
The being did not look at Achilles. Not yet.
Instead, he slowly turned his head, gaze sweeping across the entire battlefield. The few hundred of Ancient Ones across the skies and lands, who were still on edge and ready to attack.
Then, the voice echoed.
