Cold wind howled across the open plains like a mourning banshee, its cry echoing through the scorched and twisted landscape.
The lingering aftermath of Darkness Pulse clung to the air like a curse. Even now, the very fabric of the terrain trembled, warped by the blast's malevolent force. Jagged cracks split the earth in unnatural patterns, and patches of ground shimmered with a sickly, purple-black glow—evidence of corruption from highly toxic Darkness mana.
In one corner, grotesque remnants bore silent witness to the carnage.
Scattered flesh clung weakly to charred, snow-white bones, their twisted positions a grim show of agony. Some still sizzled faintly in the cold, as if refusing to cool.
Caught unprepared, the four high priests hadn't stood a chance.
They were wiped out in moments, their defensive measures crumbling like paper under the weight of Ricky's assault.
"What a fucking waste..." Ricky muttered, voice low and sharp, a bitter taste rising in his mouth.
