Thirty-five years had passed since the Dark Lord fell.
In the deepest chamber beneath the continent, far below any city or settlement, Dagon opened his eyes.
The darkness of the cavern did not hinder him. He saw everything—the ancient stone, the veins of pure mana that pulsed through the earth, the distant surface where his creations lived and breathed and forgot their god. His form had completed its transformation. The Dark Lord's corpse was long gone, replaced by something far more terrible. His skin held the faint luminescence of starlight. His eyes burned with the cold fire of absolute judgment. Horns curved from his temples, not as decoration but as focal points for power that could shatter mountains.
He rose.
The earth trembled.
