"Come out!"
"What are you waiting for?"
Damien's voice cut through the blood-soaked air like a drawn blade. His words echoed, sharp and taunting, as his eyes swept across the battlefield with cold precision.
But the Supreme Golden General remained elusive—like a ghost refusing to be summoned. It was as if the man had melted into the shadows of the carnage, choosing to observe instead of act.
All around Damien, the once-formidable Blue Hammer army had been reduced to little more than crimson mush and shattered steel.
Bodies lay strewn across the cracked earth like broken dolls, limbs twisted in unnatural angles, faces frozen in fear or fury. And at the center of this blood-drenched canvas stood Damien—silent, regal, and absolutely merciless.
His royal armor, once gleaming with pride, was now soaked in blood—thick and dark, painting him like a butcher fresh from slaughter. Yet, not a drop of it was his own.
