The drowned valley between the Sacred Mountain peaks didn’t contain water. It held an ocean of liquid oblivion. From the boiling depths of the black ink lake, where Scribe Commander Mo Sha had unwritten his own soul, the earth began to tear itself inside out with a sound unlike any beast. It was the screech of a billion chalkboards scraped at the same time by iron talons. It shook the skull of every living fighter within three hundred miles as the deep pit vomited its nightmare into the sky.
Rising from the dark depths was a monstrosity that defied terrestrial shape: the Abyssal Ink Giant beast. Towering over a thousand feet tall, the behemoth was woven entirely from living. He waved black deletion ink and corrupted First Epoch erasure glyphs. Its body possessed no fixed skin, rippling like a tidal surge of boiling pitch that nonstop sprouted and reabsorbed thousands of skeletal arms, weeping faces. Then it cut draconic wings. Its huge maw—wide enough to swallow a three-hundred-foot pagoda whole—was lined with three rows of jagged teeth carved from black glass negation runes. Where its noxious exhaust washed over the mountainside, solid granite dissolved directly into blank, empty white space.
