The whole world had become a warzone. Explosions, screams, and beams of power lit up the skies like fireworks. Buildings crumbled, sirens echoed, and portals continued to rip open across cities and countries.
One such portal opened above a ruined city square—what came through was a massive, black-scaled dragon, wings blotting out the sun, its roar cracking glass for miles.
And in front of it, standing calm as ever, was Baldur.
He adjusted his gloves slowly as his eyes tracked the beast.
"Jane," he said, his voice deep but calm, "evacuate everyone. Treat the wounded and clear the area."
Behind him, Jane nodded quickly, panic in her eyes.
"Are you sure? That thing's—"
"I said go."
And just like that, the air around him began to hum.
His once-frail-looking body began to shift—muscles tearing through his shirt, bones thickening, veins lighting up with dark sparks.
Black lightning crackled violently around him, dancing across his arms, shoulders, and chest like living energy.
