Far from the earth, in the unfathomable depths of Pataal Lok—where light gasps its last breath and the air drifts heavy with the stench of scorched souls—within the oldest prison of Hell, Gandolf hung bound in chains. Ancient arcane walls encircled him, draining his mystical powers with silent, merciless hunger.
From the darkness, Orobas emerged before him. A wicked smile curved his lips, and in his eyes burned the fire of damnation.
"Gandolf…" Orobas's voice cut through the void like shattering glass. "You wanted to stop me, didn't you? You wanted to ensure I never found the Prophecy Girl, so the Ashen Angels could never return to earth? Then listen well… I no longer need to sacrifice that girl."
Gandolf lifted his weary gaze. Orobas raised an old bottle of black glass in his hand. Within it, blue and black flames writhed and thrashed as if alive.
