Lightning tore the firmament in half.
A sea of stars burned in the sky, yet none of them offered light.
The heavens bled.
Amid the clouds of shattered laws and swirling chaos, two shadows clashed — one cloaked in golden light, the other veiled in ancient abyssal flame. Each strike shook realms. Each breath collapsed continents. The battlefield was not a land, but a layer of reality itself suspended where only the true sovereigns of the world dared to set foot.
Armies of cultivators — divine, demonic, draconic — had long since perished.
Only the titans remained.
> "It is not yet time," a voice echoed, ancient and heavy like a mountain chain breaking apart.
From the burning void emerged a figure — tall, serene, cloaked in flowing silver robes that shimmered like mirrored starlight. His eyes held the weight of ten thousand eras. In his arms, a bundle swaddled in a golden cloth pulsed faintly.
A voice followed him from the edge of space. It belonged to a woman — beautiful as a goddess, blood trailing from the corners of her lips, wings of pure flame shattering behind her.
> "He must live."
> "He must be hidden."
A dragon's roar answered — ancient, mournful, and final. It echoed across the domains, cracking the edge of the sky, torn and bloodied, descended in a final act of defiance. All that remained of him was a scale of burning obsidian, left drifting in a sea of fire.
The woman raised her hand, tracing a glowing sigil in the air. Her spiritual essence ignited as she forced the last of her power into the void.
And the heavens fell silent.
The great domains sealed themselves. The pillars of order crumbled. And across countless worlds, the prophecy was spoken in whispers:
> When dragon and crown awaken once more, the skies shall burn again.
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