The void stretched endlessly, cold and unforgiving. From this eternal darkness, Nyxara emerged—an apparition of death cloaked in shadows. His skeleton frame, wrapped in a tattered black cloak, moved with a terrifying grace. In his grasp, he carried a colossal sword, its blade black as the void and humming with an ancient, malevolent power.
Planets fell before him like dry leaves in a storm. No force could withstand his relentless hunger for power. Entire civilizations crumbled beneath his unyielding might, their cries swallowed by the dark silence of space.
Tonight, Nyxara set foot on Valdris, a beacon of resistance in the outer realms. The Resistance warriors had prepared, their hope burning bright against the encroaching night. Yet none could match the overwhelming shadow that was Nyxara.
His hollow eyes glowed with cruel intent as he raised his sword, summoning the Shadowlings—creatures born of darkness, his loyal followers. They spilled from the cracks of the world, silent and swift, ready to crush all defiance.
Nyxara's voice, a chilling rasp, echoed across the battlefield. "Power is the only truth. And it will be mine."
The clash had begun. The fate of Valdris—and countless worlds—hung by a thread.