The storm of spears descended with the inevitability of a final judgment. There were hundreds, thousands of Primordial Ice stakes seeking not only to impale flesh, but to freeze the very narrative of Lloyd's existence. The air, torn by the friction of absolute cold, emitted a high-pitched shriek—a frequency that made his ears bleed. The atmospheric pressure preceding the impact was so massive that the ground around Lloyd began to cave in, creating a crater of despair.
Lloyd could barely lift his face. His vision was blurred by a mixture of gelid sweat and warm blood trickling down his forehead. His left arm—a mass of shredded nerves and splintered bone—hung like dead weight. He watched the white storm approach, feeling for the first time in a long while the breath of absolute nothingness on the back of his neck.
"So... this is how it ends," he whispered with a bitter, bloody smile.
But the end did not come.
**BOOOOM.**
