At an unknown depth beneath Dusken, capital of the Duskwight Lands, more than five hundred bronze-skinned humans stood grim and grim. Their builds were outrageously overdeveloped, muscles layered over muscle, their manes and eyebrows a striking silver that marked their race at a glance. Iridescent veins of molten light pulsed beneath their skin, constantly evaporating the blood around them.
Mostly their enemies'. Sometimes their own.
Among them towered a figure even more colossal than the rest. Nearly six meters tall, Gerulf stood like a mountain planted in the underworld, holding back over ninety percent of the endless tide alone.
In his hands was a massive incandescent greatsword longer than his entire body, its blade burning white-orange as it cleaved through abominations. Even the steel-sheened lower fangs jutting from his jaw—more primal, more savage than those of any Duskwight native—dripped with black blood.
Gerulf had been forced to stop holding back.
