The clash at the gates had reached its breaking point.
Kaelion stood amidst a battlefield swallowed by fire and smoke. The very air quivered with heat, thick with the stench of iron and ash. His twin blades, once gleaming with disciplined calm, now glowed faintly blue—cracked and trembling under the weight of his mana. His chest rose and fell heavily; every breath dragged pain through his lungs, but his eyes still burned with the kind of resolve that refused surrender.
Across the scarred field, the devil general Bael stood unmoving—a monstrous silhouette wreathed in molten red and crawling shadow. Though deep cracks marred his black armor, his aura pulsed with terrifying consistency. Each breath he took seemed to draw the darkness closer, feeding on the despair of the fallen. The battlefield itself bent toward him, as if gravity favored his existence.
