The portal split the dark like a wound, its edges bleeding sickly violet light into the endless blackness of the hall. For a heartbeat, nothing moved and two figures stepped through, silent as regrets.
Their boots kissed the obsidian floor—and without hesitation, they dropped. Hard.
Foreheads to the stone. Hands splayed flat, almost trembling from the sheer gravity pressing down on them. Backs bent so low it looked painful, but neither flinched. Here, posture wasn't ceremony. It was survival.
The silence wrapped around them like a noose.
Above them loomed the four.
They didn't speak.
They didn't move.
They simply were—massive and inevitable as natural disasters wearing human skins.
The woman exhaled first, shaky but determined, her voice cutting through the thick, buzzing air:
"I greet the Iron Tyrant—Chi You, First and Eternal Warlord of the Dark Pantheon."
