The mountain peak shuddered as the sky continued to fracture. The blue expanse of the afternoon was being swallowed by a jagged, obsidian void that bled a sickly violet light.
Egon gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white.
"It's too early. Could it be becuase of the butterfly effect?."
In the original story, the scouts weren't supposed to arrive for weeks. But his interference have some way had accelerated the plot.
The higher-tier world had noticed the ripples in the pond, and it was reaching through the tears in reality with greedy, clawed hands.
"Egon, look!" Hilga pointed toward the base of the Holy Mountain.
From the dark mouth of the Rift, shadows began to rain down like hailstones. They weren't spirits, they were physical with hulking masses of muscle and malice.
The Demonic Orcs: Approximately 100 feet tall with skin the color of dried blood and tusks that curved like scimitars.
They jumped onto the Golden Crow forest like moth to flame.
