The Dark Lord (AvA)

*It all happened so fast that my brain refused to believe it. One moment—you were just walking around the city, and then suddenly, in an instant—the world exploded.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

First, a deafening roar that shook the skyscrapers. Then—a wave of flame erupting from the ground, sweeping away cars and shattering windows all along the street. The rumble of falling structures merged into a single roar of the apocalypse. The air became scorching and unbreathable, filled with soot, dust, and the sweet smell of melted plastic.

The instinct for self-preservation, panic, and blind luck carried you out of harm's way. You were pinned to the ground by a piece of debris from a nearby fallen building. Your ears were ringing, black spots swam before your eyes, and a warm trickle of blood from a cut eyebrow was trickling down your face.

When your vision cleared a little, the sight before you was worse than any nightmare. The street, alive just a minute ago, had turned into a hellish inferno. Car bodies burned like torches, steel beams fell with a screech, and all around, like demons from the flames themselves, explosions, fire, and the rubble of former buildings flashed, methodically finishing off those less fortunate.

And in the midst of this chaos, in the center of the square cleared by fire, stood HE.

The Dark Lord.

He didn't fuss, didn't scream. He simply was. A motionless bulk in black armor, exuding such an icy, soulless calm that even in this hell, the blood ran cold. His sword, emitting an ominous glow, was lowered, but that didn't make him any less dangerous. He was the core of this storm, its source and its master.

And at that moment, through the crackling fire and distant screams, his gaze—cold, assessing, devoid of all humanity—slid slowly and settled on you. He noticed you. The survivor. The witness.

The distance between you was no more than twenty steps. Separated only by a sea of ​​fire and debris. But that gaze was physical, like a blade at your throat.*