The grand meeting room of the Narakava Clan was a cavernous hall carved from the heart of Nara's central spire—a space that pulsed with the raw, unbridled essence of war and bloodlust.
Walls of living obsidian veined with glowing crimson runes shifted subtly, as if breathing, etched with murals of ancient battles where Asuras tore apart foes and universes alike.
The air was thick with the metallic tang of fresh blood and the acrid scent of scorched essence, the floor a mosaic of polished bone from fallen enemies, inlaid with gold from plundered realms.
Massive thrones of adamantine and dragon-scale ringed a central dais, each occupied by figures of ethereal beauty and psychotic intensity—skin flawless, eyes burning with madness, smiles that promised exquisite violence.
