The battle had turned desperate.
Blood splattered against the ruined stonework as the harpy shrieked, her massive, tattered wings whipping up a violent gale. Her form, a grotesque fusion of woman and beast, hovered high above, golden talons glistening with fresh gore. Jerry and Reginald below—bloodied, bruised, and barely standing—gritted their teeth as they struggled to mount a final stand.
Silver blades flashed, and fire roared, but nothing seemed to reach her. Every attack was met with uncanny speed, every counter crushed beneath the storm of her wings.
Then she laughed.
A piercing, grating sound—mocking, victorious.
"You are insects," she taunted, her voice echoing through the battlefield. "And I am the storm that will wipe you from existence."
She ascended higher, her wings blotting out the sun, talons poised to deliver the final, merciless strike—
And then, the sky itself darkened.
A massive shadow swept the battlefield, drowning the land in an ominous crimson hue.
