The trembling of the earth rolled through the small Tildaroot village like a heartbeat of doom. Roof tiles rattled. Cracked lanterns swayed. Every thunderous echo from the battlefield in the distance turned the sky crimson and gray, a war between gods that mortals could only fear.
The villagers huddled together in the square, their whispers breaking into sobs and panic.
"The flames—they're coming closer!"
"The ground's melting—!"
"Are those… monsters?!"
The air reeked of ash and burnt Shinrei. Somewhere far beyond the hills, the silhouettes of the fighters clashed, streaks of light carving the horizon. Even from miles away, they could feel the weight of those blows each shockwave making the world itself groan.
The village elder, wrapped in white linen robes, stood at the center, gripping his wooden staff. His body trembled, but his eyes did not.
He was frail, yes bent with age and timebut there was iron in his spine, and an unyielding fire in his words.
