"I have succeeded..."
A quiet voice reverberated in the sealed chamber, low and calm, yet carrying the weight of triumph.
Devrok's tightly shut eyes snapped open, gleaming with a sharp light. For a fleeting instant, the phantom of a knight carved from stone—his features grim, sword raised in defiance—flashed across his vision like an echo from a distant realm.
His chest heaved, white robes clinging to his body, soaked through with sweat. Every muscle pulsed with tightly coiled strength, as if sculpted from marble and flame. An electric current surged through his veins, foreign yet familiar, awakening something primal deep within.
Never before had he felt this powerful.
His thoughts were razor-sharp, a crystalline clarity cutting through the haze of mortal limits. And for a brief, impossible moment, he believed—truly believed—that if the gods themselves descended from their heavenly thrones, he could challenge them.
