The tower was a tomb of shadows, its stone walls slick with damp, the air thick with the coppery tang of mana's decay. Miss Amanda knelt before the crystal globe, her frail form a silhouette against its pulsating glow. Her silver hair, braided with obsidian beads that clinked faintly, hung like a shroud over her shoulders. Her robes, once vibrant with the hues of starlight, now shimmered faintly, their mana-threads fraying, pulsing with the last gasps of her power. Her hands pressed against the globe's surface, fingers gnarled and trembling, nails biting into the crystal until blood welled, dark and glistening. Her face, etched with the weight of decades—lines carved by resolve, sorrow, and unyielding will—was taut, sweat beading on her brow, dripping to the floor in silent offerings. Her eyes were closed, lids twitching as if burned by the visions within. Her breath came in shallow rasps, each inhale a battle, each exhale a surrender to the strain tearing her apart. She was a conduit, her body a fragile vessel for the crystal's ancient sorcery, its light searing the air with a heat that blistered the stone beneath her knees. The vision it cast—a scene thousands of miles away—was a blade through Vairagya's heart, shredding his soul with every flicker.
He stood behind her, a young man barely past twenty, his black hair matted with sweat, his eyes wide and bloodshot, reflecting the crystal's cruel radiance. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms, blood trickling between his fingers, pooling on the floor. His chest heaved, each breath a sob he choked back, his body trembling with rage and helplessness. The crystal showed a nightmare: the ocean, vast and merciless, its waves clawing at a sky choked with clouds like festering wounds, their edges glowing with sickly green lightning. The water churned, black and frothing, as if the sea itself wept blood. Dominating this hellscape was Velyndra's Royal Navy armada—sixty battleships, each a colossus of rune-etched steel, their hulls gleaming with enchantments that hummed like a chorus of damned souls. Cannons lined their decks, their barrels glowing with starfire mana, each shot capable of rending mountains. Ballistae stood poised, their spears forged in dragonfire, tips shimmering with spells to pierce the heavens. Catapults cradled orbs of reality-shattering mana, their surfaces pulsing with veins of light that warped the air. The ships were fortresses, their decks crowded with hundreds of Royal Guards, Velyndra's finest, their armor radiant with gold and sapphire, swords and lances blazing with enchantments that could sunder gods. These were Akashrastra's elite, warriors who wielded mana like deities, each a force to rival armies. Their banners bore the Rathore crest—a golden sun pierced by a spear—snapping defiantly in the gale, their edges frayed but unbowed.
Above the fleet, four of the Elite 10 Royal Guards levitated, their mana a radiant storm that lit the sea like a second dawn. They were legends, their names whispered in awe across continents: Korrath, whose greatsword summoned quakes that shattered earth; Lyria, whose whip wove flames that burned the heavens; Vrenn, whose gauntlets channeled lightning to rend mountains; and Sylvara, whose staff bent time and space, weaving reality like thread. Their cloaks flared in the wind, embroidered with runes that glowed like molten gold, their eyes burning with unyielding will. Their mana wove a tapestry of light and fury, a beacon against the darkness, shaking the air with raw power. They hovered, a line of titans, facing the horizon where a single figure rose from the depths, his presence a wound in the world.
Meghnath.
He emerged, water cascading from his tattered black clothes, rags clinging to his lean frame like a specter's shroud. No armor adorned him, no weapons gleamed in his hands—only black cloth, frayed and fluttering, and a small hood casting his hair in shadow. His crimson eyes burned, not with rage or malice, but with a calm so absolute it was terror itself, a void that swallowed hope. He stood on the waves, unmoved by their fury, his bare feet steady as if the ocean were stone. The guards felt it—their mana flickered, their hearts stuttered, their breath caught in their throats. Yet they stood, defiant, their power a blazing defiance against his darkness, their resolve a fire that refused to die.
In the tower, Vairagya's fists tightened, his nails carving deeper, blood dripping in steady rivulets. "Fight," he whispered, his voice a broken plea, tears welling in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks to mix with the blood on his hands. Amanda's breath hitched, her mana straining, the crystal's light pulsing brighter, its heat scorching her skin, leaving red welts. Her body trembled, her knees grinding into the stone, but her focus held, a thread of steel in a storm of horror. The vision sharpened, every detail a knife: the guards' sweat-slicked faces, their eyes wide with fear and fury; the ships' creaking hulls, runes flaring as mana surged; the sea's stench, salt and blood and burning steel.
Korrath raised his greatsword, its blade glowing with earthen mana, veins of green light pulsing along its edge. "For Velyndra! For eternity!" he roared, his voice splitting the sky, a thunderclap that drowned the storm. The guards answered, their war cries a tidal wave of fury, shaking the sea, their mana flaring like a supernova. Lyria's whip cracked, flames erupting in a spiral that scorched the clouds, their edges blackening. Vrenn's gauntlets sparked, lightning arcing across the ocean, electrifying the water, fish floating dead in droves. Sylvara's staff glowed, time rippling around her, slowing the waves to a crawl, the air shimmering with distorted light. The cannons primed, their barrels humming, starfire mana glowing like trapped suns. Ballistae creaked, their spears gleaming with runes. Catapults glowed, their orbs pulsing with reality-warping power. The guards' mana lit the ocean, a second sun of gold and blue and red, their power reshaping the world, ready to face oblivion.
Meghnath smiled, a cold, fleeting curve of his lips, his crimson eyes glinting like blood in moonlight.
The battle erupted.
Korrath struck first, his greatsword slashing downward, mana surging in a wave that split the ocean, a canyon of water and stone racing toward Meghnath. The air screamed, the earth beneath the sea quaked, ships rocking violently, their masts snapping like twigs. The attack was a god's wrath, a force to carve continents. Meghnath raised a hand, and gravity warped, the wave collapsing inward, stone and water imploding into a vortex of dust and foam. He flicked a finger, and fire roared—a black inferno, alive with malice, its flames curling like serpents. It devoured the vortex, surging toward Korrath, its heat warping the air, melting steel. Korrath swung again, his mana shield flaring, a dome of earthen light that held the flames at bay, cracks forming as the fire pressed. Blood dripped from his nose, his teeth gritted, his muscles bulging, but he stood, unbowed, his roar shaking the heavens.
Lyria lashed her whip, flames spiraling into a dragon of fire, its jaws wide, searing the air as it lunged for Meghnath. The heat warped reality, the sea boiling beneath it, steam rising in choking clouds. Guards shielded their faces, their armor glowing red. Meghnath stepped aside, a phantom's grace, and snapped his fingers. Water rose, not as a wave but as a thousand spears, each glowing with mana, their tips sharp as starlight. They pierced the dragon's core, flames exploding in a shower of sparks, steam clouding the sky. The spears turned, streaking toward Lyria, a swarm of death. She spun, her whip a blazing shield, shattering hundreds, but one grazed her arm, blood spraying, her scream sharp and raw, her face contorted in pain. She staggered, her whip tremblingrosa, her flames flickering, her eyes blazing with defiance.
Vrenn roared, his gauntlets blazing, lightning erupting in a storm that lit the ocean white. Bolts thicker than trees arced toward Meghnath, the air crackling, the sea electrified, waves exploding into foam. Fish floated, charred and lifeless, their scales glinting in the storm's light. Meghnath raised a palm, and magma surged from the depths, a molten wall that absorbed the lightning, hissing as it cooled into blackened stone, jagged and steaming. He clenched his fist, and air turned to blades, invisible and lethal, slashing across Vrenn's chest. Blood poured, soaking his armor, the gold and sapphire stained crimson, but he charged, lightning trailing, his gauntlets swinging like thunder. His face was a mask of fury, teeth bared, eyes wild. Meghnath met him with gravity, slamming him to the waves, bones cracking, blood pooling as his lightning faded, sparks dying in the water.
Sylvara thrust her staff, time bending, the world slowing—waves froze mid-crash, guards' movements crawled, their swords suspended mid-swing. Her mana flared, a halo of silver light, her silver hair whipping in the wind. But Meghnath stood untouched, his crimson eyes piercing the distortion, calm and unyielding. She wove mana, space fracturing, shards of reality slicing toward him, each a blade to cut gods, their edges glinting with impossible light. He laughed, a sound like shattering glass, cold and sharp, and raised both hands. The shards dissolved, melting into mist, and a maelstrom of elements—fire, magma, water, air—erupted, a storm that tore the air apart. Sylvara's staff blazed, her mana shield holding, a sphere of rippling light, but blood trickled from her eyes, her body trembling, her knees buckling under the strain.
In the tower, Vairagya's scream echoed, raw and guttural, his fists pounding the stone floor, blood smearing in arcs. "Don't stop!" he roared, tears streaming, his voice a wound, his chest heaving with sobs. Amanda's breath was a gasp, her mana flickering, her body shaking, but her eyes stayed closed, her will a flame in the dark. The crystal burned, its light searing, showing the guards' defiance, their blood painting the sea, their faces twisted in pain and rage.
The Royal Guards fought, their mana bolts a constellation of light, spears and arrows flying in volleys, a storm of steel and magic. Cannons fired, starfire bolts screaming, their trails burning the air. Ballistae launched dragon-forged spears, their tips glowing with runes that hummed with power. A bolt grazed Meghnath's hood, singeing cloth, a faint burn mark on his cheek. He caught a spear midair, snapping it like kindling, and sent a shard of magma through a ship. It exploded, wood splintering, guards torn apart, limbs and blood raining, screams swallowed by the storm. A guard, his arm severed, swung a glowing sword, screaming defiance, his eyes wild. Meghnath crushed him with gravity, blood bursting from his mouth, his body pulped, bones grinding into dust, a red smear on the deck.
The Elite Guards rallied, their power a cataclysm, the sea roiling under their might. Korrath leaped, his greatsword a comet of earthen mana, slashing with force to split continents. The sea parted, a chasm of water and stone, ships rocking, their hulls groaning. The air screamed, a banshee's wail. Meghnath dodged, his body a blur, and countered with fire—a lance of black flame that burned through Korrath's shield, searing his chest. Blood sprayed, flesh charred, the stench of burned skin choking the air, but Korrath swung again, his roar shaking the sky, mana erupting in a quake that shattered a ship's hull, sending guards into the sea, their armor dragging them down. Meghnath toyed, stepping through the quake, his hand grazing Korrath's blade, redirecting it to carve a wave in two, water crashing like blood.
Lyria, blood dripping from her arm, lashed her whip, flames forming a phoenix that screamed across the sea, its wings scorching clouds, its heat melting steel. Guards fell, their faces blistered, their screams high and desperate. Meghnath raised a palm, water rising in a tidal wave, not to drown but to bind—liquid chains that crushed the phoenix, hardening into ice, jagged and glinting. Lyria broke free, her whip a spiral of fire, slashing at his throat, a desperate arc of flame. He caught it, flames licking his hand unburned, and pulled, yanking her forward. A blade of air slashed her side, blood gushing, her scream piercing the storm, her body buckling, her whip falling limp.
Vrenn rose, lightning blazing, his gauntlets summoning a storm that rivaled the heavens. Bolts struck Meghnath, the sea exploding, ships burning, their sails aflame. He stood, unmoved, his hood singed but his eyes calm, unblinking. He clenched a fist, and magma erupted, a geyser that swallowed Vrenn's lightning, searing his arms. Blood poured, bones exposed, glistening white, but Vrenn charged, his gauntlets glowing, lightning arcing, a dying storm. Meghnath crushed him with gravity, his body slamming into a ship, blood spraying as ribs shattered, his storm fading, sparks fizzling in the rain.
Sylvara wove time again, slowing the world, her staff blazing with mana that fractured space. She struck, shards of reality slicing, the air screaming, a chorus of breaking worlds. Meghnath danced through them, his body a shadow, fluid and untouchable, and countered with a maelstrom—fire, magma, water, air—swirling like a god's wrath, a vortex of destruction. Sylvara's shield held, a dome of silver light, but blood streamed from her nose, her eyes, her body buckling, her breath a ragged gasp. She thrust her staff, time stopping, the world frozen—guards mid-swing, waves mid-crash, rain suspended like tears. Meghnath stepped through, untouched, his crimson eyes locked on hers, and touched her staff. It shattered, time snapping back, a shockwave that cracked the air, and a blade of air slashed her chest, blood spraying, her body crumpling, her silver hair pooling in crimson.
Vairagya's heart broke, his sobs shaking the tower, his voice raw, animalistic. "No!" he screamed, his hands clawing his face, blood under his nails, his eyes wild with grief. Amanda's breath was a rasp, her body trembling, her mana dying, but she held the vision, her will a dying ember. The sea was red, bodies floating, their armor glinting dully, ships burning, their hulls collapsing into ash.
Meghnath toyed, his power a mockery, his calm a blade sharper than steel. He raised one hand, and gravity crushed a ship, its hull imploding, guards pulped, their blood misting the air, a red haze. Fire rained, guards burning, their screams choking on ash, their flesh melting, bones charring. Magma surged, melting ships, flesh dissolving, guards dissolving into sludge, their screams bubbling. Water speared, piercing armor, blood clouding the sea, a crimson tide. Air slashed, carving guards to ribbons, their bodies falling in pieces, entrails spilling, heads rolling into the waves. The Elite Guards fought, their power reshaping the world—Korrath's quakes splitting the sea, Lyria's flames burning the sky, Vrenn's lightning electrifying the water, Sylvara's time-bending slowing the carnage—but Meghnath was untouchable, his movements fluid, his power infinite.
Korrath charged, his greatsword a storm, mana erupting in a wave that split the ocean, a chasm wide as a city. Meghnath met it with fire, burning his shield to ash, charring his arm, the flesh black and peeling. Korrath roared, blood dripping, and struck again, the sea quaking, ships splintering. Meghnath dodged, his hand grazing the blade, sending it into a ship, shattering it, guards screaming as they drowned. Lyria's phoenix rose, burning the sky, its wings a holocaust, but Meghnath's water crushed it, ice slashing her chest, blood gushing, her body swaying, her flames dying. Vrenn's lightning lit the world, bolts thicker than towers, but Meghnath's magma consumed it, searing his flesh, his arms raw and bleeding. Sylvara stopped time, her staff gone but her hands weaving mana, freezing the world, but Meghnath broke it, air slashing her throat, blood spraying, her body falling, her silver hair a crimson veil.
The guards' defiance burned, their mana a dying star, their hearts unbreakable. A guard fired a cannon, grazing Meghnath's cheek, drawing a thin line of blood, dark and glistening. He smiled, crushing the guard with gravity, blood exploding, his body a smear of red. Another threw a spear, piercing his cloth, pinning it to his side. Meghnath burned him, flesh charring, his scream a high, keening wail, his body collapsing into ash. The sea was a graveyard, wreckage floating, bodies piling, blood like ink, ash clouding the air, the stench of death choking.
Meghnath raised both hands, and the world stilled. The storm paused, the waves froze, the guards gasped, their mana flickering. He spoke, his voice a whisper that cut through the carnage, cold as death. "You are nothing."
He clenched his fists, and oxygen vanished. Hundreds of guards clutched their throats, mana collapsing, bodies convulsing, eyes bulging, veins bursting. They fell, blood trickling from burst vessels, their armor clattering, but they fought—crawling, swinging, firing, their defiance a flame in the dark. Korrath swung, his blade trembling, blood pooling, his greatsword heavy, his arms shaking. Lyria lashed, her whip fading, blood streaming, her flames mere embers. Vrenn sparked, lightning weak, blood dripping, his gauntlets dim. Sylvara wove, time flickering, blood gushing, her hands trembling, her mana spent. They refused to bow, their power god-like, their hearts iron.
Meghnath toyed, his crimson eyes calm, unblinking. He crushed Korrath with gravity, bones snapping, blood spraying, his greatsword falling, sinking into the sea. Korrath's body crumpled, his chest caved, blood bubbling from his mouth, his eyes wide, unseeing, his mana fading, a green flicker snuffed out. He burned Lyria, flames searing her flesh, her scream fading, her whip falling, her body charring, her golden hair ash, her flames gone. He drowned Vrenn, water crushing his lungs, blood clouding, his gauntlets sparking once, then dying, his body sinking, lightning silent. Only Sylvara stood, her chest slashed, blood pooling, her silver hair matted, her hands raised, weaving faint threads of time, her eyes burning with defiance, her breath a rattle.
The Royal Guards fell, one by one, their mana bolts fading, their spears snapping, their cannons silent. A young guard, barely twenty, his face pale, his armor dented, fired a crossbow, the bolt grazing Meghnath's arm, drawing a bead of blood. Meghnath turned, his eyes locking on the boy, and raised a hand. The guard's body twisted, gravity warping, his bones grinding, his scream a wet gurgle. His flesh tore, skin splitting, blood and organs spilling, his body folding inward, a grotesque sculpture of meat and bone, his eyes bursting, his scream silenced, his crossbow falling, sinking into the red sea.
Another guard, a veteran with scars crisscrossing his face, swung a glowing axe, its blade humming with mana, his roar shaking the air. The axe grazed Meghnath's cloth, tearing a strip, revealing pale skin unmarred. Meghnath snapped his fingers, and magma surged, a spear of molten rock piercing the guard's chest, burning through armor, flesh, and bone. The guard screamed, his body melting, his axe falling, his face dissolving, his scream bubbling into silence, his body a puddle of slag.
The sea was a slaughterhouse, bodies piled, their armor glinting dully, blood lapping at wreckage, ash falling like snow. Ships burned, their hulls collapsing, their runes fading, their mana spent. The storm raged, lightning flashing, illuminating the carnage—limbs floating, heads bobbing, blood swirling in eddies, the air thick with the stench of death, burned flesh, and salt.
Meghnath turned to Sylvara, the last Elite Guard, her body trembling, her chest slashed, blood streaming, her hands weaving faint threads of mana, her eyes burning with unyielding will. She wove time, slowing the world, her mana a flicker, her breath a gasp. Meghnath stepped through, untouched, his crimson eyes calm, and raised a hand. Air slashed, carving her arm, blood spraying, her scream sharp. She staggered, her knees buckling, but raised her other hand, weaving time again, freezing the waves. Meghnath broke it, his hand grazing her chest, air slashing deeper, blood gushing, her ribs exposed, gleaming white. She fell, her silver hair pooling in crimson, her eyes dimming, her mana fading, but her lips moved, whispering defiance, a curse, a prayer.
One Royal Guard remained, a man named Torren, his armor battered, his sword glowing faintly, his face a mask of blood and soot, his eyes wild with grief and rage. His brown hair was matted, his beard streaked with blood, his left arm hanging limp, bone protruding, blood dripping. He stood on a sinking ship, its deck tilted, flames licking its edges, bodies strewn around him, their blood pooling, their eyes staring blankly. Torren raised his sword, its mana flickering, and roared, his voice raw, shaking the air. "For Velyndra! For my brothers!" He charged, leaping across wreckage, his boots slipping in blood, his sword blazing, a dying star.
Meghnath turned, his crimson eyes glinting, his smile cold, predatory. Torren swung, his sword arcing, mana flaring, the air humming. The blade grazed Meghnath's chest, tearing cloth, drawing a thin line of blood, dark and glistening. Meghnath laughed, a sound like breaking worlds, and raised both hands. Gravity warped, pinning Torren mid-step, his body trembling, his sword shaking, blood dripping from his nose, his eyes wide, veins bulging. Meghnath stepped closer, his hood falling, revealing pale skin, black hair, and those crimson eyes, calm and merciless.
"You dare," Meghnath whispered, his voice a blade, his breath cold, his eyes locked on Torren's. He clenched a fist, and fire roared, black flames curling around Torren, licking his armor, blistering his skin. Torren screamed, his voice raw, his body writhing, but he swung, his sword trembling, mana flickering, grazing Meghnath's arm, drawing blood. Meghnath's smile widened, and he snapped his fingers. Water rose, not to drown but to pierce—spears of liquid mana, glowing, stabbing Torren's legs, blood spraying, bones cracking, his screams high and desperate. He fell, his knees shattering, blood pooling, but he crawled, his sword dragging, his eyes burning, his breath a rattle.
Meghnath knelt, his crimson eyes inches from Torren's, his voice a whisper. "Your defiance is beautiful. And futile." He raised a hand, and magma surged, a molten tendril wrapping Torren's arm, burning through flesh, muscle, and bone. The arm dissolved, blood and ash mixing, Torren's scream a piercing wail, his body convulsing, his face contorted, tears mixing with blood. Meghnath twisted his hand, and air slashed, carving Torren's chest, ribs splitting, blood gushing, his heart exposed, pulsing weakly, blood pooling, steam rising. Torren gasped, his sword falling, his eyes wide, his breath a gurgle, but he reached, fingers clawing, grazing Meghnath's cloth, tearing a strip, his eyes burning with defiance, his lips moving, whispering, "Velyndra… lives…"
Meghnath's eyes narrowed, his smile fading, and he clenched both fists. Gravity crushed, Torren's body folding, bones grinding, blood bursting, his chest caving, his heart rupturing, blood spraying, painting Meghnath's face, crimson droplets on pale skin. Fire roared, burning Torren's flesh, his screams fading, his body charring, his bones cracking, ash falling. Water speared, piercing his skull, blood and brain spilling, his eyes bursting, his scream silenced, his body a ruin, a grotesque heap of meat, bone, and ash, steaming in the rain, blood pooling, the sea swallowing it, red and black, a tide of death. His sword sank, its mana dead, its glow snuffed, a relic in a graveyard.
Meghnath stood, his tattered cloth fluttering, his crimson eyes sweeping the slaughter, the sea a canvas of blood, ash, and wreckage, bodies floating, their armor glinting, their eyes staring blankly. The storm raged, lightning flashing, illuminating the carnage, the air thick with death, the stench choking, the waves red, lapping at the dead. Sylvara lay, her silver hair crimson, her chest slashed, her breath gone, her defiance eternal, the last Elite Guard, her mana silent.
Meghnath spoke, soft as death, his voice cutting the storm. "This is truth. Power is mine."
He turned, walking across the waves, the ocean parting, a path of sand stretching to the horizon, dry and gleaming, a wound in the sea. He paused, his crimson eyes piercing the crystal, into the tower, thousands of miles away. Vairagya froze, his breath gone, his heart stopping, his tears drying, his blood cold. Amanda trembled, her mana faltering, her hands shaking, her breath a whisper, her eyes wide with terror, reflecting Meghnath's gaze, his calm a blade through her soul.
"I know you're watching, kid," Meghnath said, his voice a whisper, sharp as steel, his eyes locked on Vairagya's, his smile cold, a promise of death.
Amanda's eyes snapped open, terror flooding them, her breath a gasp, her body shaking, her mana dying. The crystal's light died, the projection collapsing, darkness swallowing the tower, the air cold, the silence heavy, the stench of blood and mana lingering. Vairagya fell back, gasping, his chest burning, his hands clawing the stone, blood under his nails, his sobs raw, his heart shattered. Amanda clutched the globe, her body trembling, her breath a whisper, her silver hair falling, beads clinking, her robes dim, their mana dead. They sat, barely breathing, Meghnath's words a scar on their souls, his crimson eyes a haunting, his power a shadow that swallowed hope.
The tower was silent, the world broken, the sea a graveyard, Velyndra's armada dust, its guards blood, its Elite fallen, its last hero a ruin, his death a nightmare etched in ash and bone. Meghnath walked, the ocean parting, his path a wound, his crimson eyes burning, his calm a promise of ruin, his power a god's, his truth a blade that cut the world to ribbons.