The world had become nothing but impact and echo.
At the center of devastation, two forces clashed—Shaurya and Yang Ling—moving like storms given flesh. Every collision carved new wounds into the earth; every breath they took carried the weight of gods.
Shockwaves erupted in wild succession, scattering dust and debris through the air. Each explosion left a fresh scar on the battlefield; each sonic boom reshaped the broken sky.
The ground was no longer solid—it breathed, quaked, and screamed beneath them.
Shaurya burst through the haze, his figure half-shrouded by golden light. Blood streaked down his torso, dripping rhythmically against the cracked earth. His breath came heavy but steady, his grip firm on the hilt of his blade.
Ahead of him, Yang Ling emerged from the voided mist, levitating inches above the ground, black blood running down from his shoulder in thick, inky trails.
He rolled his neck, then his shoulder, letting out a low growl that curved into a grin.
