The passage spiraled down—deeper than any world-born cavern dared stretch. The air thickened, hotter with each step. Blue flames lit cracked stone, casting shadows over murals of forgotten war. Symbols Matt could now read whispered truths into his blood.
"Here fell the Nitine.
Here raged the war of kings.
Here was born the exile of gods."
The path ended at an obsidian archway—cracked, but pulsing with ancient power. The Shadowsidian Blade vibrated faintly as Matt stepped through.
Beyond was no cave.
It was a graveyard caught in time.
Ash hung like snowfall. The ground, scorched and warped. The sky—blood-red, torn by storms. Mountains burned in the distance. And everywhere—
Bodies.
Thousands of them.
Nitrine warriors. Lava beasts. Fire-broken skeletons. Thunder-blasted orcs. All locked in their death-throes—frozen in a final moment, unmoving.
A battlefield sealed in stasis.
Then—the sky rumbled.
A shadow moved.
Matt drew his blade.
From between towers of melted stone, a giant emerged. Over eight feet tall, sinewed muscle beneath scorched obsidian armor. Tusks of bone. Crimson tattoos coiling his arms like chained fire.
Strapped to his back: Thunfrie Axe—thunder and flame fused into one.
Ondharo, King of the Savage Orcs.
He stopped twenty paces away. Sniffed the air.
Then growled.
"You stink of war... and memory."
Matt said nothing.
Ondharo stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
"You smell… familiar.
You... the Exiled Flame. The one they betrayed."
Matt's breath caught.
Ondharo dropped the axe. Thunder cracked above.
He slammed his fists together—and roared.
"Then strike, Forgotten One!
If you carry the wrath of your kind… PROVE IT!"
The battlefield reanimated.
Time cracked.
The corpses stirred—phantoms of war cursed to relive their final deaths. Nitrine warriors, Nayron beasts, divine constructs—all resumed their loop of agony. Magic bled from the ground.
Ondharo charged.
Matt didn't flinch.
He met him head-on.
Steel clashed with thunder. Flame met Void. The air screamed with the force of impact.
Ondharo swung wide—Matt ducked, pivoted, sliced across his ribs. Lava-blood hit stone.
Ondharo grinned.
"Good. Still wild. Still dangerous."
He struck back—Matt flew, crashing through the ribs of a dead war-beast.
He landed hard, coughing smoke.
The Void stirred.
"You need more."
He wiped blood from his lip.
"Fine."
Void Technique Unlocked: Rift Rend
Matt slashed the air. Space buckled.
As Ondharo charged again, Matt sidestepped and brought the blade down.
The Rift cracked.
Reality split.
The slash tore through axe and shoulder. Ondharo howled, dropping to one knee.
Flames bled from the wound—but they didn't heal.
The Void had burned too deep.
Ondharo glared up at him, panting.
"So the Exiled Flame returns... with death in his hands."
Matt raised his sword.
Then paused.
The battlefield had gone still.
Every phantom frozen—watching. Waiting.
Ondharo spat blood and grinned.
"Well? Will you kill me… like they did you?"
Matt's eyes burned with voidlight.
Then dimmed.
"No."
Ondharo blinked.
"I don't serve the same gods anymore."
The blade vanished.
Matt turned.
Ondharo stared after him.
Then laughed.
"Then maybe the boy I swore to follow… isn't dead after all."
He stood, gripping the ruined axe.
"War still calls, Exiled Flame.
If you survive the others… we will meet again."
With that, he turned—vanishing into storm.
Matt stood alone in the echoing field, heart still thundering.
Behind him, the battlefield dissolved. Time folded inward.
A new path revealed itself—lit by shifting glyphs.
At its peak: a shrine.
Within:
A broken crown.
A map of the stars.
A name etched in gold:
Salurga, Flame of the First Rebellion
Matt exhaled.
He wasn't just a forgotten god.
He was a king.
And war was waking again.