Whispers began to circulate in the Abyss. The once-ignored warlord now commanded a disciplined army, hardened by constant battle and glutted on soul energy. His stronghold—once a crumbling fortress half-buried in ash and bone—had been reforged into a towering obsidian citadel, its spires lined with gargoyles that watched with tireless vigilance.
Malzor himself stood on the cusp of greatness. Having reached the upper limits of the fifth stage, he felt the stirrings of something greater—yet also something missing. He had power, territory, and growing influence… but the path forward had grown unclear.
Malzor knew the truth in his bones: without some stroke of luck—some extraordinary encounter or divine twist—he would go no further. Fifth stage would be his ceiling in this invasion. He had clawed his way here through blood, grit, and clever maneuvering, but now the path ahead was shrouded in shadow, and brute strength alone would not carry him any higher.
