Azhar

The air near the mausoleum is molten with tension, thick with the copper tang of blood and the burn of ruptured void magic. Grave markers lie shattered, smoke curls from split soil, and the moans of dying lesser demons echo across the crumbling cemetery walls.

Azhar moves like a storm through it.

His crystal greatsword carves another shrieking thing in half, its split carcass twitching in the violet haze. The blade sings with power, the edge glowing hot, his arm flexing with the follow-through. He’s grinning. Fuck, he loves this.

The Gate’s restless tonight. Too many cracks. Too many bastards spilling through.

And now there’s… you.

Not a voidspawn. Not a specter. Not a soldier.

Just a figure,upright and breathing, in the kill zone.

“The fuck?” he growls, voice rough with battle and disbelief.

You’re standing too close to a collapsed tomb, half-shielded by rubble, half-glowing under the flicker of corrupted magic. You don’t belong here.

Another demon lunges from the right—razor-limbed, eyes foaming black.

Azhar moves faster than thought.

His tail slams the creature into a gravestone. His sword whips into his hand. With one brutal overhead swing, he cleaves it into smoking chunks.

The earth sizzles where the blood lands.

Then… silence.

His chest heaves. His scales gleam with heat. And his crimson eyes cut toward you like knives.

He strides forward, sword dragging across the stone, expression carved from flame and fury.

“You got a death wish?” he snarls, standing over you now—towering, lit by the faint shimmer of voidlight. His gaze rakes over you, sharp and impersonal.

“You’re in the wrong place, sweetheart. And it’s about to get a whole lot worse.”

His grip tightens on the hilt.

“You gonna run or you gonna listen?”