As Kael’s words—“Raelen will return to a graveyard”—echoed through the broken ruins, a sudden silence fell over the battlefield, so intense that even the fires seemed to falter. And then, there was a shift in the air, a powerful pulse that rippled outward, a wave of something primal, ancient, and filled with fury.

Raelen materialized at the center of the citadel, his form cloaked in radiant light and shadow, his eyes blazing with an uncontainable rage that seemed to warp the very fabric of reality around him. He had been in the midst of battle himself, leading his forces to push back a front of Zaros’s army in the east. But in the middle of a strike, he had felt it—the delicate threads of his magical barriers shattering, a breach too intentional to be anything but the worst. He had wasted no time, unleashing his full power to decimate the forces before him, not sparing even a glance at their lifeless forms as he willed himself back to the citadel, knowing in his heart what he would find.

But nothing could have prepared him for the devastation that lay before him now.

The Sunborn citadel, the very heart of hope for those he had freed, had been reduced to a smoldering graveyard. Bodies littered the streets, the remnants of once-joyful homes lay in ruins, and the few remaining sparks of life were faint, barely holding on. The sight drove a searing pain through his heart, a rage so intense it threatened to tear him apart. He felt something ancient within him, a power that had lain dormant, awakening with his fury. This wrath pulsed outward, a force so overwhelming that the ground trembled, and the very skies darkened in response.

Zaros himself, far off in his stronghold, felt it—a shift in the balance of power, the resurgence of something he hadn’t sensed in ages. For the first time, a flicker of fear stirred in him, a silent acknowledgment that the war he thought he was winning had taken a far deadlier turn.

Raelen’s presence burned through the battlefield, and as he locked eyes with the generals, their arrogance faltered, and terror took its place. Theron, Kael, and the other commanders tried to rally their troops, but the power emanating from Raelen was unlike anything they had faced. He was no longer simply a warrior; he was the very embodiment of wrath, vengeance forged into human form.

Raelen raised his hand, and the air itself seemed to bend under his will. Shadows and light merged, intertwining into a devastating, primordial force as he whispered a single word in a language older than time, drawing on power he hadn’t wielded in centuries. Columns of blinding light and roaring shadows erupted from the ground, swallowing Zaros’s forces, dissolving their forms as if they were nothing but ash. Raelen moved through the ranks, his rage unfurling with each step, a vortex of energy that obliterated everything in his path.

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The generals, once so assured of their victory, found themselves helpless. Kael’s taunting sneer vanished as he realized Raelen’s approach, his fingers trembling as he tried to lift his weapon. Theron, his cunning strategies shattered, fell to his knees, struggling to even look upon the radiant power before him. They could barely raise their defenses before Raelen’s fury washed over them, his voice cold and filled with a promise of unrelenting vengeance.

“You will suffer for every life you have taken,” Raelen said, his voice echoing with an otherworldly resonance, reaching into the depths of their minds. With a sweep of his hand, their bodies were enveloped in light, torn apart by the very forces they had so arrogantly sought to control. One by one, the generals fell, their final screams swallowed by the churning maelstrom of Raelen’s unleashed power.

When the last of Zaros’s army was nothing more than dust, Raelen turned his gaze upon the lifeless bodies of the Sunborn. His heart ached at the sight of those who had trusted him, those who had looked to him for protection, now lying cold and broken. But his wrath, his power, would not be satisfied with revenge alone. Channeling the remnants of his ancient strength, he extended his hand, summoning a swirling vortex of life energy, a restorative force that had once been forbidden to him. The air around him shimmered with a blinding white light as he called upon a power that could defy even death itself.

Raelen whispered words of ancient magic, his voice carrying across the battlefield. He traced intricate symbols into the air, weaving the threads of life itself, binding them back to the fallen. One by one, the bodies began to stir, their wounds knitting together, breath returning to their lungs as he poured his very essence into them. When the last of the fallen had opened their eyes, their lives restored, Raelen staggered slightly, the toll of such magic weighing heavily upon him.

He lifted his gaze, and with a thought, opened a portal to a pocket dimension, a realm removed from the mortal plane where he could safeguard his people. This war would no longer risk their lives; they would be safe, removed from Zaros’s reach.

As he watched the survivors pass into the portal, the echoes of their silent gratitude touching his heart, Raelen made a silent vow. He would end this war, once and for all. Zaros had taken too much, and no more would Raelen’s people suffer for his darkness. This battle would end only with Zaros’s downfall, and Raelen would not stop until every trace of Zaros’s reign was erased from this world.

And with that, Raelen’s gaze turned toward the distant horizon where Zaros lay in wait, his path set. The end had begun, and nothing—no barrier, no power, no force of darkness—would stand in his way.