It took less than a second for the sky of the Chaovoratities Plane to ignite in pure destruction. Flas rained in all directions, splitting the sky apart as the strongest of the alliance faced the Sacred Kings of the Vorotallicae. The world itself seed to scream, its tallic crust cracking under the weight of gods and monsters colliding.
High above, Emperor Brightkin of the Faerathia Empire shone like a sun reborn. His blade, slender and radiant, appeared forged from condensed light itself, a weapon not of steel, but of divine conviction. His opponent, however, was the very embodint of corruption and decay: Dormatu, one of the oldest and most sadistic of the Sacred Kings.
Dormatu’s form was a grotesque vision of flesh fused with bone and iron. Jagged, bone-like armor grew directly from his sinewy body, and his right arm ended in a blade of twisted marrow with a glaring, lidless eye embedded in its center. His head was smooth and featureless, no mouth, no eyes, only a faintly glowing sigil that pulsed like a dying heart. Each breath he exhaled released tendrils of black mist, thick with the Laws of Corruption.
As the two beings clashed, light and decay warred across the sky.
The Emperor’s sword struck with brilliance, and Dormatu’s blade shrieked with the agony of tortured souls. Each impact shattered the atmosphere, sending ripples of divine and blighted energy cascading across the battlefield.
"Hmph," Dormatu hissed, his voice erging as if from deep within his armor. "It seems you still haven’t learned your lesson from our last encounter, Brightkin."
This was not their first battle. Years ago, Dormatu had led an invasion into the Faeralan howorld, but Brightkin forced him back, at great cost. The scars of that day still burned on the Emperor’s flesh.
But now, Brightkin’s expression was as cold as a winter star. "On the contrary," he said softly, his voice a blade itself. "I learned a great deal."
Dormatu lunged, his blade arm twisting in midair like a serpent. Yet Brightkin had already seen it — he had replayed this exact move in his mind a thousand tis.
The Emperor sidestepped, his movents seamless, and his sword cut through Dormatu’s guard. A blinding arc of pure light tore across the Sacred King’s chest, splitting armor, sinew, and bone. Dormatu roared in agony as purifying fire seared his corrupted flesh.
For the first ti in centuries, Brightkin smiled from the bottom of his heart. "This ti," he whispered, "it’s your turn to fall."
Not far away, another clash of titans sent shockwaves tearing across the landscape. A mountainous creature was hurled into the ground, its impact obliterating an entire mountain range in an instant. The beast’s colossal fra rose from the crater, molten sparks dripping from his armor.
This was Akorum, another of the Sacred Kings, a monster of explosive fury. His body was encased in dark, rusted plates, his skin glowing with molten veins of blue lightning. Each breath he took ignited the air, and his eyes burned like twin suns of rage. When he roared, entire valleys quaked.
"Insect!" he thundered, glaring upward at the figure descending from the sky, a warrior wrapped in molten gold and magma-like power.
It was Orkin, the Dvergar King, his hamr glowing with volcanic might. His long, white beard stread in the heat, and his eyes burned like forge-fires that had seen the birth of worlds. He gripped his weapon tightly, the hamr pulsing in rhythm with his heart.
"Let’s see what your thick skull can withstand, you oversized lump of scrap!" Orkin bellowed, diving downward like a teor.
"ROOOAAAAAR!"
Akorum charged upward, jagged spikes erupting from his arms. The two collided midair, hamr against claw, unleashing a cataclysmic blast that lit the horizon. A wave of plasma tore through the battlefield, vaporizing everything in its path and scattering armies miles below.
The clash repeated again and again, each strike splitting the clouds apart, each roar shaking the world’s crust.
Far above, in the burning skies, another duel raged, one that danced with speed and precision rather than raw power.
Queen Ankil of the Amazon Kingdom was a vision of divine ferocity. Her golden armor shimred with runes of protection, her movents fluid and deadly. Her weapons were a sword and shield, and while they looked unassuming, even rustic, the energy they carried could shatter divine barriers. Her every motion was guided by discipline forged in endless wars.
Yet despite her prowess, her armor was already streaked with blood. Dozens of cuts marked her arms and legs, each shallow but precise, gifts from her foe, the Sacred King Dacay.
Unlike the other Vorotallicae, Dacay was not a hulking abomination. His form was slender, elegant, and terrifyingly composed. A tattered white robe fluttered over sleek black armor veined with faint blue light. His face was hidden behind a demonic, skull-like mask etched with runes that glowed from within. Two whips connected to spectral scythes extended from chains in his hands, their edges whispering as they sliced through the air.
"Your form is flawless," Dacay said, voice smooth and mocking, "but your body bleeds too easily."
The whips lashed out, a blur of steel and death. The sky flashed as the scythes danced in wide arcs, coming from every direction at once. Sparks and screams of tal filled the air as Ankil blocked and twisted, each movent faster than the last, her shield intercepting blows that could carve through mountains.
She advanced, step by step, each block a defiance, each swing a declaration of will.
"Then let teach you," she shouted, "how mortals surpass their limits!"
Golden energy erupted from her body as she broke through the storm of blades.
The last two to face each other were living cataclysms, beings whose very presence warped the world around them. Their size defied reason, and their clash made the sky tremble and the earth shatter.
One of them was a dragon, not of flesh and scale alone, but of obsidian and stormfire. His colossal body seed sculpted for battle, a living weapon perfected through eons of war.
Every scale shimred with black light, sharp and unyielding, each one capable of deflecting blades or tearing through armor. Spikes lined his spine and wings, their tips gleaming like blades of onyx. His tail ended in a massive, serrated spike, a weapon so sharp that it could pierce through moons.
When he roared, the air itself fractured. From his jaws poured endless waves of dark plasma that burned through clouds and sky alike, leaving trails of molten energy in his wake.
He was rlin, the King of the Obsidian Dragons, one of the oldest dragons in existence, and the living embodint of destructive majesty.
His opponent, however, was no less terrible.
Across from him towered a monstrous titan, clad in jagged platinum armor that shimred with the cold brilliance of starlight. His fra radiated power, not pure, but corrupted, coiling around him like a storm of smoke and spectral fla.
Sharp, blade-like protrusions jutted from his shoulders and back, giving him the dreadful visage of a living fortress forged from knives and nightmares.
Glowing red symbols burned across his helm and chest, pulsing in rhythm with a dark, infernal heartbeat. His eyes blazed with fury, twin orbs of crimson fire.
The na of this abomination was Fernir, the Platinum Executioner, the largest of the Sacred Kings, after Apophis. His strength was said to have ended civilizations, and now, that sa fury was turned upon rlin.
Fernir’s voice echoed like thunder rolling across the void.
"Insects, we will show you the price of challenging those who are better than you!"
rlin’s wings spread wide, the air distorting with the heat and force of his power. "Then co, tal tyrant," he snarled, his voice shaking mountains. "Let us see whose legend survives the ruin."
The two titans clashed midair, and the continent trembled.
The shockwave that followed split the ground open for countless kiloters, tearing valleys into the crust of the Chaovoratities Plane. They locked together in a furious struggle, plasma and starlight colliding in a storm of annihilation. Each strike unleashed apocalyptic blasts that reduced entire mountain ranges to dust and turned oceans into steam.
When their colossal forms crashed into the ground, the impact flattened the horizon, creating a crater vast enough to swallow continents. From above, it looked as though a star had fallen.
The rest of the Lords of the Alliance paused for just a breath, their eyes wide at the sight. The sheer magnitude of those eight put them on an entirely different level despite technically being on the sa Rank.
But there was no ti for awe.
From a distance, the remaining Voroe Lords began to appear, monstrous silhouettes erging from smoke and fla, drawn to the chaos like carrion to blood. Their collective presence turned the battlefield into a nightmare of writhing corruption.
Altharion made his energy explode, his eyes sharp and full of will as he glanced at the rest of the Lords of the Alliance, all of them nodding to each other as they flashed toward their enemies. The Sacred Kings needed to die, and they would not allow anyone to get in the way.
The battle had begun less than ten minutes ago, and the explosions were already so imnse that they could be seen from the void.
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