Battle to the Death

On the wasteland at the edge of the Goblin Plains, light and shadow lay in jagged pieces, like a board scrawled on by a mischievous child.

A man stood motionless at the sharpest boundary between brightness and dark.

His robe was black as night, its tailoring almost severe. A stiff, high collar hid his jaw, while the draping cloth flowed like black mercury, concealing his face and shrouding his entire figure in mystery.

When the wind caught the hem, it revealed a lining covered in dizzyingly intricate patterns—ancient, curse-laden designs that looked like screaming ghosts or coiling thorns.

He tilted his head back slightly.

High above, a vast and unsettling feast was underway.

A gray-black "sun" was devouring the blood-red one beside it, slowly and greedily, like a monstrous mouth.

The red halo twisted beneath its assault, like blood sizzling on a hot branding iron.

Farther across the sky, the Thunderbolt Sun struggled against the Black Nightmare Sun, while the Crystal Sun and Emerald Sun tore at each other.

This looked nothing like a natural phenomenon. It was more like a magical duel gone out of control, a twilight of the gods.

A faint rumble descended from the distant heights, indistinct yet piercing straight into the mind.

At times it carried arcane chanting that boomed like the lowest notes of an organ. At others, voices conversed with the cold indifference of clashing ice, or something inhuman roared with fury and resentment.

"Dark Chief."

The voice came suddenly, yet somehow naturally.

The shadows in the air seemed to come alive, twisting and taking shape.

Another black-robed figure appeared beside the man without a sound, like a ghost passing through a wall.

He leaned in so close his lips nearly touched the man's ear, delivering his report in the hurried, hushed tone