Burning flames spread across the earth, as though even the night itself had been set ablaze.
Countless stars moved above the battlefield, casting cold and cruel light, reforming their ranks, brutally smoothing the earth's wrinkles and mending the cracks in the sky.
Once more linking the entire shattered world into one whole.
Under the declaration of war, the gloom cast by Golden Dawn had been brutally covered over, replaced by an unprecedented tide of counterattack.
It was as though the whole world were shouting.
Toward hell.
The clang of iron echoed through the abyss.
Yet outside the board, within the hall, there was dead silence.
The uninvolved attendees trembled, not daring to make a sound. More players had already turned their scarlet eyes toward the Present Realm.
The air had long since frozen solid.
Even the sound of breathing had been strangled within their lungs.
Only majestic wills descended from the abyss, raising projections as rulers from infinite depths cast cold gazes upon the challengers who had overestimated themselves.
And amid the Extreme Cold formed by that malice, apart from the King of Withered, whose eyes shone with irrepressible delight, even from the towering throne at the very center of the hall came a gaze that seemed almost tangible.
As though in surprise.
It looked down with focused attention.
After a long while, the Grand Lord turned toward the other side of the board. "Though his strength still falls somewhat short, that arrogant look in his eyes does resemble how you lot were back then..."
He said, "You found yourself a fine successor, Marcus."
"Yes."
The old man nodded, pressing down the blanket over his knees as he smiled softly. "Better than me."
The Grand Lord fell silent for a moment, then shook his head. "Such talent, bound to the