Inside the portal, darkness had taken over the void, creating a realm of gloom where existence itself was called into question. The starry sky was nothing more than a crude illusion; for in his eyes there existed only the infinite—a mass of smoke that consumed everything, suffocating space itself. Despite the oppression, the Transcendents had fought fiercely against that amorphous amalgam that claimed more and more of their power with each passing day.
However, after what seemed like an eternity, the silhouettes parted.
The mass of darkness contracted and flashed a sly, malicious smile. But it was not an unfamiliar gesture: it was Azrael's smile. One of the three Transcendents, and the first to fall. The glorious King of Demons had now become a puppet, the new vessel for the Dragon of the Apocalypse.
