The battlefield fell silent.
Not gradually—but all at once.
Spells ceased.
Steel froze mid-swing.
Even the wind seemed to stop.
Rain still fell, but softer now—quieter—as if the storm itself held its breath.
The temperature dropped.
Not a breeze.
But something colder.
Deeper.
Like the world had suddenly remembered fear.
All eyes turned to the center of the field.
And what they saw...
Most would never forget.
There, hovering above the broken earth, held aloft by writhing black tentacles, stood a figure that barely resembled a human.
Not just black.
Void.
His robes fluttered without wind, the fabric seeming to ripple with something not of this world.
A mask—demonic, ink-dark—hid his face.
But it was the tentacles that paralyzed them.
Four of them, slithering out from his back like omens of death, twitching, coiling in the air, each dripping with power that didn't belong to mortals.
In his hand… a crimson katana.
No words.
No roar.
He didn't need one.
