As the smoke thickened into a curtain over the castle, a stale silence seeped through the compound and into the throne room.
What remained was the aftermath of a relentless barrage meant to drive even a god to its knees.
Yet the Devil—the Mad King—stood undaunted. Uncanny, unyielding, its frame had withstood destruction that could rival the fury of nuclear fire. And so, when the haze began to thin and the grand hall slowly revealed itself in ruin, the creature remained rooted in place, untouched and unshaken.
Its body was a grotesque torrent of miasma woven into ancient wood, its jagged spikes clattering together with a sound that was at once melodic and venomous—too sweet for the ears, too poisonous for the mind.
Slender yet towering like an ancient tree, its sheer size dwarfed the throne room, casting a shadow that smothered what little remained among the debris.
