They were all stunned and bewildered as they watched the young man brandishing a rope dart.
But even in their shock, they could feel it—
The aura emanating from the weapon was no mere trick.
It was a peak weapon, terrifying in both essence and form.
The rope dart looked like the tail of a dragon—alive, coiling with primal intent.
Its head was a fang, forged from the raw essence of collapsing stars and newborn worlds, etched with ancient runes that pulsed with the dual rhythm of Creation and Destruction.
Every glint from its edge whispered birth.
Every shadow it cast promised ruin.
The rope shimmered like a serpentine thread of existence, woven from the sinews of extinct dragons and the breath of forming realms.
It slithered through the air as though rewriting space with every movement—each motion a dance between forging and unmaking.
Between the fang and coil spun silver Chaosrings, each resonating with the opposing forces of genesis and obliteration.
