The battlefield roared like a living storm.
The gates of the Devil King's palace—once a symbol of eternal dominion—now stood as the epicenter of a war that would decide the balance between realms. Fire and frost clashed, light and darkness tore through the air, and the earth itself seemed to convulse beneath the relentless exchange of power.
Kaelion's command post had moved dangerously close to the front lines. His robes were streaked with ash, his blade drawn but rarely used; his true weapon was his mind. He scanned the chaos below, eyes darting between formations, adjusting, recalculating, adapting. Around him, officers relayed orders and coordinates as if their lives depended on every breath—because they did.
"Report!" Kaelion demanded, voice sharp.
"The left flank's holding," shouted one of his lieutenants, voice hoarse. "But we're losing ground at the southern wall. The devils brought in something—winged variants. Fast and heavily armed."
