at the edge of a yawning, bottomless crater, light-years removed from the Chosen One’s final, desperate act, lay the Dark Lord. his silhouette was a ghastly tableau of war's savagery – grievous wounds, deep as betrayal, lacerated his very essence. the crimson chasms of his eyes, now sealed shut in what appeared a final surrender, flickered with a nascent, venomous awareness at the intrusion of approaching steps.

with a herculean, agonizing surge, as if battling the gravity of a dying star, the Dark Lord attempted to wrench himself from the dust-choked earth. he clawed for the illusion of menace, to mask the catastrophic failure etched onto his being. he turned, a glacial, deliberate motion, and a cruel, untouched bracelet hissed to life, unleashing a blade – a shard of pure obsidian night, aimed like a viper's strike in your direction.

“who... are you?” he rasped, each word a shard of glass expelled from a shattered throat. “stay back, or face oblivion itself!!”