"Welcome, valiant insects."
Malice incarnate himself spoke upon sensing the arrival of Threnodia's supposed heroes.
Deep and sinister, his voice boomed across the vast, ruined hypaethral;
"Welcome to the grand finale of this long, overdrawn shitshow."
Slowly opening his eyes, its pools of crude-black sclera surrounding nefarious purple irises radiated pure, unfiltered contempt.
Beneath his gaze, framed by his pitch-black hair, stood three familiar figures.
Their expressions were tense, yet defiantly resolute, their fingers clenched tightly around worn weapon hilts.
Behind them stood a battalion, each warrior armed to the brim with Relics, potions, and for better or worse… desperation.
They were the last of Threnodia's forces.
Survivors from every race whom had banded together in an effort to make their final stand.
But unlike the unwavering trio leading them, the battalion trembled beneath the weight of an overwhelming dread as the being above spared them only a detached, passing glance.
And how could they not?
Seated on the black, polished throne of mythril and obsidian, its design mirroring his armor, Razavhul, lounged with casual dominance, one leg slung over an armrest and his head propped lazily against a curled fist.
He was the Primordial Archon's greatest mistake.
Self-Appointed, Primeval Genie of Darkness and Destruction.
Architect of Threnodia's fall.
And true to his monikers, he had brought about the downfall of their world in grand fashion.
Yet, imposingly adding to what was already a nightmarish tableau, a colossal serpentine dragon coiled around his throne.
Shrouded in swirling mists beneath a dreadful moonless sky, its obsidian scales shimmered like oil on glass and its eyes smoldered like coal on fire.
The serpentine creature scanned the battlefield… silent, watchful, deadly.
Yet, despite the dread, despite the trepidation, despite the horrors, torment and inevitable death that awaited them, Threnodia's heroes stood firm, driven by a single, shared thought;
'This war, no matter the cost, must end today!'
Responding to their steely resolve, Razavhul rose.
Lightly descending the ruined steps of the decimated hypaethral, a longsword formed in his hands, an astral construct of ominous purplish radiance.
Then came the smile.
A slow, malicious curl of his lips that bore every reason he was evil incarnate.
His raspy voice rang out like a curse.
"Burn."
The serpentine dragon obeyed.
A burst of condensed onyx-black flames ignited the battlefield.
Chaos erupted.
Battle cries pierced the air.
Relics collided in cataclysmic blasts.
Steel clashed in storms of sparks.
Bodies were torn apart and strewn across the broken floor.
Blood flowed like river.
And when the dust finally settled, more than a full day later, only one stood.
Razavhul.
Bloodied and battered, his armor was similarly shredded with deep wounds lacerating his torso and his breath came in ragged gasps.
But he stood.
And before him, on broken knees, were the remnants of Threnodia's final hope.
Their so-called valiant heroes, knelt beneath his apathetic gaze, dead.
A woman with striking, disheveled pink hair, her skin slick with blood and sweat, had a gaping wound in her abdomen. She coughed crimson, her victory over the serpentine dragon coming at a devastating price.
A princely elf with storm-grey eyes lifelessly knelt a couple meters from her, his vision unseeing. A diagonal gash had carved through him, taking the lower half of his right arm.
And lastly, the one whom had been the greatest thorn in his side;
A rugged-looking man with tanned olive skin, bloodied and broken with his lower limbs severed.
His green irises flickered dimly, life clinging to him by the thinnest thread.
Razavhul stared at them, unfeeling.
Then, he raised a hand.
A new sword of violet energy bloomed into being.
And as he brought it down, ready to behead the last hero standing, the Genie of Destruction, felt his entire being freeze.
Like a statuette, he was held in place by a force beyond his understanding, his body completely left wide-open and vulnerable to a fatal attack.
A wave of realization soon struck him like a tidal wave, resulting in a bellow of disbelief emerging from the very depths of his deep, dark, hateful soul;
"This?! This can't be?!"
However, a single moment of vulnerability was all it had taken.
The dismembered hero lunged at Razavhul in a final gambit, delivered a fatal strike to his heart with an icicle shard, exploded it from within, and viciously wrenched it out a second after!
Collapsing gracelessly onto the floor, the icicle shard, slipped right out of his lifeless palms.
Yet, he had achieved what he wanted.
Staggering backwards in horrified denial, mouthfuls of blood splurging from his lips, the Primeval Genie, watched as the body he had been inhabiting for the past hundred years, failed him.
"How is this possible?!"
Desperately, he tried to invoke the Bloodline's healing factor.
But instead, a radiant golden light erupted from within him.
It poured from his soul, washing over his essence like an exorcism.
Razavhul collapsed to his knees.
Then came the screams!
"No!"
The roaring!
"Not again!"
The weeps of denial!
"Not when I'm so close!"
His cries echoed across the wreckage of the world he'd ruined!
"I—!"
And then,
"Curse you, Greymane—!!"
Those were Razavhul's final words as a smoky wisp—his soul—drifted from the vessel and vanished into nothingness.
And in its place, was a grey-haired young man, barely clinging on to life as he coughed out another mouthful of crimson.
Head slumped downwards, surrounded all around by corpses and death, the young man raised a trembling hand.
With slow, deliberate movements of his shaky finger, a golden wisp of energy, flowed gently, pulling all the aether within vicinity.
It was as if he was drawing an indescribable essence from the very marrows of the world.
And with every meticulous stroke and carve of the glowing runes, the range from which the golden essence was pulled, increased exponentially.
Its radius expanded.
The glow intensified.
Aether rushed towards him from every corner of Threnodia like a relentless black hole.
Until, at last, a miniature star pulsed in his grasp.
It was beautiful.
It was brilliant.
It was radiant.
It was pure.
And then it exploded!
A golden wave of light consumed everything… and reality, was undone in a flash of incandescent dawn.