Back at the same volcanic plains where Max had once endured months of agony under the relentless training of the giant dwarves, silence now reigned. The air shimmered faintly with heat rising from the blackened ground, and the distant roar of molten lava echoed like a deep heartbeat beneath the earth.
The old training ground—where Max had been beaten, broken, and reforged into something far stronger—was almost unrecognizable in its stillness. The scorched marks and shattered stones still bore the remnants of his suffering, each one a reminder of the torment he had survived.
Now, only two figures stood there. Max, calm and resolute, and opposite him, Tribal Lord Igris—once Chief Igris—now draped in an intricate black and bronze armor lined with golden runes that glowed faintly under the violet sky.
His presence radiated power and authority, yet there was something deeper in his gaze—something ancient, as though he carried the weight of countless generations upon his shoulders.
