The battlefield reeked of burnt stone and spilled blood, but amid the old ruins, Wulf remained on one knee—bloodied, beaten, but not broken. Across from him, Zedrich loomed like a dark monolith, his form wreathed in crackling darkness and oppressive power.
Isolde struggled to her feet some meters behind him, panting and battered. Her vision swam, but she could still see Wulf clenching his fists, refusing to fall.
"Isolde," Wulf muttered, his voice hoarse. "I'm going in alone. I need you to support me from a distance."
She blinked. "Are you insane? He'll tear you apart if you rush him alone!"
Wulf turned his head slightly, a tired smirk forming on his bruised lips. "Trust me. I'm not going alone..."
A distorted laugh echoed in the air, unnatural and chaotic. The Jester—Wulf's entity—materialized behind him, floating eerily with a twisted grin that stretched ear to ear. Its lanky limbs twitched with manic energy, and it let out a giggle that chilled the bones.
