The warlord stood on the cliff’s edge, his tattered banner clawing at the storm‑lit sky. Below him sprawled the Ember Empire—its obsidian towers aflame, rivers of molten ruin carving through the bones of a once‑holy city. Lightning split the heavens, and the eclipse burned like a dying god’s eye, watching the empire’s last breath. Once a realm of divine order, it had become a crucible of vengeance. The warrior’s armor was scorched, his crown heavy with guilt, yet his gaze burned with purpose. He had destroyed the world to save it, and now, amid ash and thunder, he would forge it anew. The Ember Empire would not die—it would rise again, reborn in fire.