Within a dark room, a man sat upon a throne carved from pure obsidian.
His pitch-black hair absorbed the surrounding light, and his violet eyes shimmered—not with fury, but with a curiousity and amusement.
There was no panic in his expression. Only silence, and a storm beneath it.
Huh.
Everyone should be dead by now.
His gaze turned to the massive magic circle etched into the stone floor—glowing faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
It was the centre of the ritual he had so meticulously planned.
Then why... are four lives still burning?
His smile faded.
Interesting.
He leaned back slightly, fingers tapping against the cold armrest.
This ritual… this city… everything had been in motion for half a year.
Patience, precision, preparation.
Every rune had been carved with blood. And now —
Four anomalies appeared.
They weren't supposed to exist.
He narrowed his glowing eyes.
They're interfering with my harvest.
