The battlefield trembled beneath Valerian's feet as the second round began. Dim stars hovered like broken shards in the abyss, illuminating the floating platforms of death with sickly silver light. Four survivors from the first clash—Valerian, Selene, Seraphine, and Lira—stood together in the center of a crumbling arena, their wounds fresh but their resolve forged in steel.
The air itself seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, as if the very fabric of reality was diseased. Ancient runes carved into the stone platforms glowed with eldritch fire, whispering secrets in languages that predated human civilization.
Then the mist rolled in.
Cold. Metallic. Whispering with ancient voices that spoke of forgotten wars and buried kings.
