The skies over the ruined battlefield had turned black. Not from the coming of night—but from the swirling miasma of corrupted mana tearing open the fabric of reality.
Valerian's breath was ragged. His black cloak fluttered violently, torn at the edges. His blade—Sablefang—dripped with the ichor of Wraithborn and warped abominations. Around him, bodies smoldered. The taint of death was thick, choking.
But he didn't flinch.
Before him stood the Crimson Monk, that ancient entity who had feasted on centuries of blood rituals. His skeletal face, wrapped in crimson bands, bore no eyes—only glowing sockets of vile hunger. Arcane runes pulsed along his gaunt arms as he hovered above the ground, hands bleeding pure red mana into a growing sigil below.
"You are too late, child of fate," the Monk hissed, his voice a whisper and scream at once. "The gate shall open."
