The battlefield was silent in the wake of Darius's devastating triumph over the corrupted demigod Wyrm-Sovereign. Its monumental corpse smoldered in a pool of steaming ichor, and yet the silence was not peace—it was dread. A breath held by the universe before the plunge into deeper darkness.
Across the war-scarred skies, threads of reality bent like glass under pressure. Those who survived the god-clash—the remnants of Darius's legions, divine constructs, and the mortal elite—stood paralyzed as the air grew thick with something foreign, something profane.
A curse was coming.
Azael was the first to speak, voice trembling despite his knowledge. "We broke the last seal."
Celestia's eyes widened. "The Seal of Oblivion?"
"No." Azael turned to Darius. "Worse. The Seal of Unmaking—the one placed by the Prime Coder Himself to cage the First Void."
Darius's gaze darkened. "And what happens when that seal shatters?"
