The ice cracked beneath Dexter's boots as he steadied himself, eyes locked on the titan scythe-wielder. His wings stretched wide, each feather glimmering with traces of sunfire and darkness interwoven, an unnatural marriage of night and day.
The air seemed to constrict around him. A foul pressure radiated from the titan, oppressive enough to make the battlefield itself groan. That scythe—it wasn't forged of metal. No, it pulsed with raw spirit, a weapon sharpened by death itself. Every swing ripped through the air, warping the space it cut, as if the world itself feared being touched.
Dexter's fangs bared in defiance, his pupils dilating. Shadows coiled at his feet, yet they did not stretch as normal shadows did. No—they devoured the light around him, spreading outward like a living stain. The battlefield grew darker, and then, with a guttural snarl, Dexter invoked his authority.
[Domain Active: Ghoul King's world]
