The sun was low on the horizon, casting a warm orange hue across the vast battlefield. The air was thick with the metallic tang of spilled blood and the gnawing cries of warriors locked in deadly combat. The once-green field had been transformed into a macabre dance floor, where soldiers clashed in a rhythm of steel against steel, their weapons shimmering in the fading light.
Magnus, armored in gold and silver, moved fluidly among the soldiers, his sword a blur as it cut down enemies with deadly precision. Each swing, each counterattack was a testament to years of training and the weight of the crown and the title he now bore-- the emperor of Death. The ground around him was littered with foes, yet more kept coming, drawn to him as if challenging the might of the Emperor was a badge of ho
