The battle had already reached its fever pitch, the air thick with the dense atmosphere of chaos and destruction.
Dale stood amidst the ruins, his figure serene, as though the pandemonium around him were but a distant echo.
The abominations swarmed, their twisted forms moving like a tide, each of them grotesque in their design, each intent on annihilation.
But none of them were a threat.
Not to him.
With a fluid motion, Dale drew his spear, its sleek shaft gleaming in the fractured light.
He held it with an elegance that betrayed the violence it was capable of, his fingers tracing the weapon's surface like one might caress the blade of a sword.
The spear was no mere tool, it was an extension of his being, a conduit for the darkness that lingered beneath his calm exterior.
He had been fighting for what seemed like an eternity, yet he remained untouched, his composure unshaken.
