Beneath the cursed sky, where the dead whispered in the wind, the Black Rider pressed forward. His spear, forged in the depths of the Abyss, pulsed with an eerie glow. His horse, a shadow-bound steed, moved silently through the haunted valley.

Above, the Deathlord’s visage loomed, carved from the very storm, his hollow eyes watching. The prophecy had spoken of this night—the night the Rider would face the endless void.

With each step, the land withered, and the sky darkened. The Rider’s heart burned with defiance. He was the last sentinel of the living world, sworn to stand against the tide of doom.

As the first echoes of the Deathlord’s voice shook the mountains, the Rider raised his spear. Shadows clashed with fire, fate with oblivion.

The war for the soul of the world had begun.