Hallowen Devil Blast
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The sun dipped below the jagged horizon, casting long shadows over the ruins of Eldrath. A cold wind whispered through crumbling stone, carrying echoes of a forgotten empire. Kael tightened his grip on the relic—a twisted shard of obsidian humming with dormant power. Legends spoke of its ability to撕裂 reality itself, but all he cared about was the promise etched into its surface: *Find the Black Spire, and she lives.* His boots crunched on brittle bones as he moved, the air thick with the scent of iron and decay. Something shifted in the periphery—a flicker of movement too swift for human eyes. He smirked, fingers brushing the hilt of his blade. Let them come. The spire’s jagged silhouette loomed ahead, its apex piercing stormclouds crackling with violet lightning. Every step forward made the relic burn hotter, searing his palm. He’d braved warlord hordes and blood-mage cults for this. Now? Now the real game began.
