Smoke curled through the air, heavy with dust and blood. The ruined battlefield lay cracked and trembling under the lingering pressure of Zedrich's presence. But something had shifted. Something had changed.
Wulf, battered and bleeding, stood with fists raised, blindfold still tied tight across his eyes. Beside him, Isolde's figure pulsed with the radiance of her third-level Quas blood, the intricate vines of the Enchantress woven around her arms and shoulders like living armor. The two warriors breathed in tandem, their hearts pounding with one final purpose.
Across from them, Zedrich—partially fused with the abominable Satanis—radiated power that bent the very air. His horns glinted, and his golden sword dripped with both shadow and light. Yet his breath was ragged. Cracks had begun forming in his armor, and his steps, though thunderous, carried the weight of exhaustion.
"This ends now!" Wulf shouted, his voice layered with the eerie double-tone of the Jester within.
