Fire, smoke, the taste of blood—a mixture of arcane energy scorch and decomposition in the air, where rocks and steel crumbled apart.
Border Camp No. 22 has been leveled to the ground.
The statuesque Black Armored Knights stand amidst the devastated ruins, corpses from both sides of the battle lying intertwined on the battlefield. As the sun rises, a howling cold wind sweeps across the plain, carrying the scent of blood and smoke far away.
Among those Black Armored Knights still able to stand, some armor is already in tatters, exposing the equally ragged bodies underneath—flesh torn apart by scorching blades or beams shivering in the cold wind, edges writhing with abnormal flesh buds and viscous, bizarre growths. This should be a sight terrifying to ordinary humans, yet the knights seem oblivious, standing silently as they await orders.
