At a Desolate Battlefield...
Ash danced on the wind like snow, carried over cracked stone and forgotten bones. The sky above was a burning canvas of twilight—neither night nor day—where the sun had long since abandoned the world.
On one side of the barren expanse stood a man.
Hair like molten gold flowed down his back, catching the last vestiges of dying light. His pale green eyes shimmered with quiet supremacy—calm, confident, invincible.
Before him, a monstrous horde stirred—beasts of nightmare and shadows, writhing with malice, each more grotesque than the last.
And yet, the man smiled.
Aamon Celastine raised one hand and snapped his fingers.
"Come forth," he said, voice carrying like a divine decree.
"My Seven Celestial Generals."
In an instant, the space behind him pulsed with power.
Seven radiant figures appeared upon the shattered wall behind him—seven women of breathtaking presence, each from a different race, each exuding an aura that could topple nations.
They stood not as subordinates.
But as legends.
Aamon's sadistic grin stretched as he extended both arms wide, welcoming the storm of blood to come. His words rang like prophecy—
"Let the war begin