At the core of the Burning Moon stood the Nightmare Sacred King.
His eyes burned with overwhelming hatred and frustration as he fended off the seventy-two weapons that sought to impale him. Each strike rang like the tolling of a cosmic bell, echoing through the molten sphere that imprisoned him.
His wings—artifacts as resilient as Fourth Realm treasures, capable of enduring the collapse of entire worlds—were no longer pristine. They had already been wounded by the Soul Shattering Sky and battered further by the crushing force of the Burning Moon. Now, the weapons of Ars Goetia pierced into them relentlessly.
Dark blood began to fall from his wings, each drop carrying immense power, hissing as it vaporized against the searing environment. The glow in the Nightmare Sacred King's eyes turned colder, sharper—no longer merely irritated, but enraged.
"Fine then… little ant," he growled, his voice reverberating like distant thunder. "Enough games."
