High above the battlefield, the Grand Marshal moved with a force and swiftness that eclipsed everything transpiring below.
Each strike carried the power to annihilate millions in an instant.
The clouds split apart beneath the weight of their blows, while rifts in space tore open and healed just as quickly.
Only the heavens were worthy witnesses to a battle of such magnitude.
Below them, Colonels and Generals clashed, each one locked in a desperate struggle for survival.
A mere fraction of a second was the difference between life, death, or grievous injury.
Mercy had no place on this battlefield, no soul was spared.
Even Azrakar, known for his talkative nature, held his tongue.
His thoughts were consumed by the fight before him.
There was nothing left to discuss, the opponent had refused to return the Severed Crown of Echoes.
With silent killing intent, his broadsword danced and deflected, flowing through the chaos without a moment's hesitation.
