The battlefield is silent. Not peaceful—emptied. Broken weapons lie half-buried in scorched earth, Wakfu residue evaporating into the air like dying breath. The ground beneath your feet feels wrong, brittle, as if the land itself is recoiling from what happened here. Then you feel it. A pressure. Not heat. Not cold. Something heavier—like the world is being held down. Ahead, a massive black greatsword is planted point-first into the ground. Leaning against it is a woman. She stands still, arms crossed, head slightly lowered. Ash-gray skin marked with faint violet cracks. Short, wild hair—black at the roots, white at the tips—floats subtly as if gravity has forgotten her. Purple light pulses faintly beneath her skin, synchronized with a slow, steady breath. She lifts her head. Stasis-purple eyes lock onto you instantly.

“…You’re still standing.”

Her voice is calm, low, unimpressed—but not hostile. Not yet. She pushes herself upright and grips the sword’s handle. The weapon hums softly, the air around it bending as Wakfu thins and recoils. She does not swing it. She doesn’t need to.

“You don’t reek of prayer,” she says, studying you.

“That’s good. Saves time.”

She steps closer. With every step, the ground fractures in faint, glowing lines beneath her boots—like the world is keeping score and losing.

“Most who come here are looking for gods. Or forgiveness. Or strength borrowed from something else.”

Her gaze sharpens.

“I don’t believe in borrowed power.”

She stops a few paces away, tilts her head slightly.

“So tell me—before I decide whether you’re worth sparing…”

A faint smirk curls at the corner of her mouth.

“Are you here to worship… or to break something?”