In the midst of the chaos, time slowed for Count Rimmon.
His heart pounded like war drums in his chest, drowning out the screams, the clash of steel, even the roars of the wyverns. All that remained was the sight—a battlefield soaked in firelight, strewn with the corpses of his beasts, and crawling with soldiers that should not exist.
His gaze swept the carnage.
Ashbourne's troops fought like phantoms—silent, merciless, and inhuman. No fear. Only cold, perfect coordination.
And behind them, the embers.
Those damned embers that birthed teleporting killers. And the knights still burning—still burning—yet walking like they felt nothing.
Terror coiled around Rimmon's spine, tightening like a vice.
This wasn't natural.
No army—no matter how well-trained—should be capable of this.
He's been there, Rimmon thought, a chill piercing his soul. He's accessed the Primordial Realm…
A place whispered of in legends, and through the mouths of those at the top.
