Crack!
The scorched stone beneath Damien's boots finally gave in, splintering with a sharp crack before erupting into fragments. Bits of molten rock scattered across the battlefield, clinking against the cold corpses strewn like forgotten relics of a once-mighty army.
Damien stood motionless amidst it all, his eyes glinting like obsidian—icy, unreadable.
He said nothing.
He made no sound.
He simply waited.
The wind howled around him, dragging ash and burnt cloth through the air like ghostly banners. The scent of smoke, blood, and gunpowder lingered in the atmosphere, thick enough to choke a lesser man.
But Damien didn't even flinch.
His gaze remained fixed ahead, unblinking—waiting. Whether the Blue Hammer King would truly arrive or not, he couldn't say for sure. But his instincts whispered something different. Something deep inside—perhaps a remnant of battle-honed intuition—told him the confrontation wasn't over yet.
So he waited.
And the world waited with him.
