A shockwave of putrid blood-mist slammed into the northern sea-gate before Draven’s war cry had even finished echoing.
The seventy-foot halberd descended from the storm clouds like a falling crimson tower. Every foot of cursed iron groaned with the collective spiritual pressure of a Saint Vessel Peak monster.
The air above the island turned black, suffocating every lung with the stench of stagnant slaughter.
At the outer harbor mouth, the monolithic Saint-Iron stele took the brunt of the atmospheric shear.
CRACK-CRACK.
A jagged fracture ripped through the eighty-foot iron monument. The ancient warding runes carved into its face sputtered and died, showering the battlements in showers of dead sparks.
On the ramparts, Elder Sterling and Barnaby Holt dropped to their knees simultaneously.
The sheer physical weight of Draven’s peak-stage domain felt like an iron anvil resting upon their shoulder blades. Sterling drove both of his broadswords three inches into the stone deck, his forearms trembling violently as he fought to keep his spine straight.
