The battlefield was a festering wound carved into the flesh of the world. The air reeked of scorched mana and blood, the stench clinging to the back of Atlas Von Roxweld's throat like bile. Ash drifted down like corrupted snow, glowing flecks of fairy core dust catching in his sweat-matted black hair. Every breath he drew felt thick with iron, every beat of his heart a hammer strike against his fractured ribs.
His Truth Eyes flared crimson.
And he saw him.
Number Five descended from the dying airship, not like a man, but like a judgment. His boots barely stirred the soil. His golden hair gleamed with unnatural luster, untouched by the rot of battle. The sword in his hand was straight, elegant, and slim, forged with such density of mana it warped the air around it—a blade not just for killing, but for ending. Power bled from him in waves, thick as fog, crushing the field with invisible weight.
Atlas's fingers twitched at his sides.
