Rumi’s final note from “What it Sounds Like” echoed across the battlefield, her voice fading into a charged silence. The air was heavy—haunted. The demons stood frozen, their snarls faltering, eyes wide with something dangerously close to fear. Her melody hadn’t just pierced the air—it had pierced them, shaking the corruption loose, leaving their forms flickering, unstable, on the edge of collapse. Then, from the opposite end of the stadium—high above the chaos—you rose. Bathed in spotlight, you stepped forward slowly, a gleam of defiance in your eyes. In your hand: a shining mic, catching the light like a weapon of purpose. You raised it to your lips, gripping it tight, your voice cutting through the tension with a raw, electrifying edge—part song, part spoken spell. Every syllable carried weight. Every word rewrote the atmosphere. And with it... the tide began to turn.