On a field of ash and ruin, amid the cries of the fallen, Blackcurst, the Puaka King, was a monument to vengeance. He wasn't defeated; he was only delayed.
"This is not the end, Celestion!" His voice, a guttural tremor, shook the very ground as dark Shakti writhed like a living wound around him. "I shall return, and the stars themselves shall bow to me!"
With a final, terrible roar, he was consumed not by fire, but by the swirling abyss of his own power, leaving behind shattered lives and the bitter taste of a victory that felt more like a defeat.
The elder seers had foretold this age, of a force born from dead evil souls that would rise to consume the galaxy's light. Now, their prophecy was a living scar on the land of Earth.
Thousands of Celestion warriors were dead, their blood watering the fields. King Awan, who had led the charge, was grievously wounded. The enemy had been repelled, but their king, Blackcurst, had escaped. With him went his generals, a dark promise of future destruction. The triumph was hollow, the grief a raw, open wound.
King Awan, grappling with his injuries, retreated to the Realm of the King for healing. But he refused to rest. In his mind, the war was just beginning. He tasked his trusted secretary, Ria, a former Kshatriya, with a critical mission. Through a floating mirror embedded in his royal crown, his weary voice was a sharp command.
"The darkness lingers," he told her. "We must act."
Ria's heart hammered a frantic rhythm. She saw not just a mission, but a countdown. The Puaka's insidious energy and the lingering dark orbs would soon poison the world if they were not contained.
Acting on the King's orders, Purba, the Kshatriya leader, faced a choice. Of the eighteen elite warriors, six would be chosen for a mission that would decide the fate of their world and the generations to come. They were a necessary hope in the face of impossible odds.
Their destiny was no longer in the stars. It was buried in the shadows of the cosmos, waiting. And they were walking right into it.