Chaos Legion 2

Prologue

Sieg, an elite Chaos Legion summoner, sat on the edge of a weathered stone wall, his gaze fixed on the city below. The evening sky painted a tapestry of warm hues as the sun dipped beyond the horizon, casting a soft glow over the ruins. Beside him, Arcia, his silver-maiden gunmage, rested her head on his shoulder, her gunblade gleaming faintly in the twilight.

The silence between them was comforting, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. They had fought side by side through countless battles, but moments like this—when the world seemed still and peaceful—felt like the rarest treasure.

Yet, despite the tranquility, something lingered in the air. It had been years since Victor Delacroix, the dark sorcerer, was defeated in this very place. His portal to the Dark Plain had been sealed, but not before it had left a scar upon the land—a scar that still bled, though faintly. Occasionally, creatures from the other side would slip through, though none had yet caused any real trouble.

Sieg’s thoughts were interrupted when Arcia spoke softly, her voice almost a whisper against the wind. "Do you ever wonder, Sieg... what might come through that portal next?"

He shifted slightly, glancing down at her. "We’ve faced worse," he said with a small grin, though even he couldn’t shake the unease that had been building in his chest. "But, something tells me this time will be different."

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Elsewhere, in the shattered ruins of the battlefield, an old magician stumbled across the remnants of the clash between Sieg and Delacroix. His hands trembled as he picked through the debris, his eyes falling upon a peculiar tome, its pages worn and its leather cover cracked with age.

Driven by an unknown compulsion, he began to read aloud the words on one of the pages. The air around him thickened, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to tremble. With each incantation, the very fabric of reality began to ripple.

A dark, swirling shadow emerged from the portal, its form coalescing into a figure—a woman, draped in darkness, her features hidden by the gloom. The magician’s breath caught in his throat as he turned toward the figure, his heart pounding in his chest.

The woman’s eyes, glowing like embers, locked onto him. For a moment, she stood still, her shadowy form undulating as if it were alive. The magician opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Fear rooted him in place, his body betraying him as the figure took slow, deliberate steps toward him.

With a smooth, almost graceful motion, the woman reached out and took the tome from his hands, her fingers brushing against his skin like a cold whisper. Her lips curled into a smile, and she blew a kiss in his direction—a kiss that seemed to drain the warmth from the air itself. The magician’s eyes widened in horror as he felt his very life force being pulled from him.

A dark laugh echoed through the air, and the man collapsed to the ground, his body lifeless.

The woman stood over him, her shadowy form writhing as if it were shedding its former self. Slowly, it began to solidify—flesh and bone forming from the darkness, her body becoming human. The transformation was both beautiful and terrifying, as if the night itself were giving birth to a new being.

She took a slow step forward, her eyes scanning the world around her as she breathed in the scent of the air.

The world, it seemed, was hers for the taking.

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