While Einar fled the battlefield—retreating from the chaos he himself had set into motion—he quickly discovered one brutal truth:
There was no escape from Malthorn's domain.
Not yet.
The landscape had been twisted. Molded into the Undead Lord's image.
A kingdom of bones.
The terrain stretched endlessly in every direction—jagged ribs of colossal beasts formed bridges, shattered skulls served as uneven footholds, and long, splintered femurs jutted out of the ground like pikes, ready to skewer any who dared to tread carelessly.
It was more than a battlefield.
It was a graveyard dreamt into existence.
And it belonged wholly to Malthorn.
After his initial, effortless slaughter of one of the participants, a suffocating silence fell over the rest.
A silence that crushed.
A silence that screamed.
Fear permeated the air like a toxin, and it showed—visibly—in the trembling stances of the remaining participants.
