The battlefield trembled.
Dust swirled.
The air shuddered with divine pressure.
Even the clouds seemed to recoil from the center of the storm where one man stood, back arched, lungs heaving, eyes burning like twin suns.
Herios, King of Herion, mortal-born, steel-tempered by war and purpose, raised his sword once more.
It glowed brighter than the sun.
Lines of ancient runes ignited across its length, pulsing with radiant heat, reacting not to divine command, but to human will.
And Herios's will had never burned brighter.
He roared... a terrible, primal cry that tore through the air, shaking even the heavens.
With a thunderous blast of light, he rushed forward, his speed tearing a crater in the ground behind him.
The six divine spirits reacted instantly.
"Varan, flank!"
"Solmyra, above!"
"Thalureon, box him in!"
Commands shot between them like lightning, and they closed in—flashes of divine color and raw power converging on Herios like a pack of celestial wolves.
