The battlefield burned. The Tenth Floor was already a wasteland of shattered stone and molten rivers, torn apart by the clash of blade and glaive. The heat was suffocating, but Seth’s body burned hotter still. His crimson aura whipped around him like a storm, the black sword in his hand glowing brighter than ever before.
Across the field, Rhazgor stood tall, unbowed, his glaive spinning casually as though the fight had only begun. His cracked armor had healed, molten flesh knitting itself back together. His ember eyes gleamed with cruel delight, wings spread wide as fire bled from the cracks in his obsidian skin.
“You’ve grown teeth,” Rhazgor admitted, his voice echoing across the burning floor. “But teeth don’t make a wolf. You’re still the same broken pup I forged in Hell’s pits.”
Set
