The battlefield burned red beneath the fractured moon.
Luca's twin sabers sliced through the chaos like streaks of light, their edges singing with mana as they tore through one cultist after another. Each movement was instinct — duck, parry, cut, twist — the rhythm of death echoing in every breath he took.
All around him, the cries of elves mixed with the guttural laughter of cultists. The air was thick with blood and ash, every gust of wind carrying the scent of smoke and decay. Luca's boots skidded across scorched soil as he cut down another enemy lunging for a wounded elf, dragging the survivor back before diving forward again.
"Get back!" he barked, parrying a crimson-tinted blade before countering with a slash that sent sparks flying.
He could feel it — the weakness in the elves' defense. Their movements sluggish, their mana flow unstable. Something's wrong… why are they weakening so fast?
