It finally stood up, at least ten times the height of Gale, maybe more once Ludwig's eyes stopped trying to measure it like a sane person.
The Red King unfolded from its seated bulk with a slow inevitability, the kind of motion that made the battlefield feel smaller just by existing in it. Fat, massive, dense with stolen muscle and stolen life, it rose until it blotted out bodies behind it and turned the horizon into something you had to look around.
No theatrics. No victory roar. The time for performance had passed the moment it realized the feast was over. Now it was simply a living calamity finally deciding to work.
It raised a palm, too large to be a hand in the normal sense, more like a slab of flesh with fingers attached, and brought it down.
