The battlefield was still trembling from the aftershocks of Damien's resurrection-fueled slaughter. The golden floor beneath their feet was stained with blood, both fresh and spectral, and above them, threads of ancient luck swirled like startled flocks of birds, circling the corpses before being absorbed into the victors.
The once-proud members of the Celestial Blaze Sect, the Soulweavers of the West, and the Twilight Blade Sect now littered the floating platform like broken statues, stiff, scorched, and still.
Of the thirty drow who had entered the Trial of Plundered Luck mere minutes ago, only three remained standing.
Damien stood in the center of the carnage, his death energy curling around him like a patient storm. He was breathing evenly, his legendary Spear of Eternal Storms still pulsing with residual lightning, the blade faintly humming with the satisfaction of blood well earned.
