The crimson moon cracked open the heavens, bleeding lightning across a dying world. From the ruins rose the Warlord of Ash, his armor scorched by centuries of battle, his blade humming with the echoes of fallen gods. He stood alone on the shattered ridge, facing the skeletal titans clawing their way from the abyss. Each swing of his sword tore through the storm, carving light into the void as the city below crumbled into fire and shadow. Above him, spectral wings circled the broken moon—angels twisted by despair, whispering the final hymn of creation. The Warlord’s roar drowned their lament, defying the pull of oblivion itself. As the ground split beneath his feet and the last tower fell, he raised his blade toward the bleeding sky, ready to strike at eternity. The world would end screaming his name.