Before the warriors could pass through the door, the sky exploded. Black dragons burst from the red clouds, spitting fire — the forces of Balrog, the Black Power. But the guilds answered. The Winged Ones. The Dragon Guild with its golden dragons. The amazons of Jade. The blacksmiths of the Howling Hammer with their war machines. It was an epic slaughter in the blood-red sky.

Balrog dismounted from his dragon, his massive blade in hand, and blocked the door.

— Give me the gem, he demanded.

Draven stepped forward.

— No.

— You. The traitor. You dare defy me?

— I served you for ten years. And when I discovered you were plotting with the Tessarians to awaken Shabakan, I understood. You do not want to stop the accursed serpent. You want to become him.

Balrog smiled.

— Of course. The Black Power deserves the power of Shabakan. And I shall be the one to wield it. Now, die.

The duel was brutal, swift, deadly. Draven summoned specters, souls torn from the beyond. Balrog ripped through them. His blade pierced Draven's heart.

The necromancer fell to his knees. With one last effort, he summoned every soul gathered during the quest — a living wall between Balrog and the door.

— PARTEZ !

Elyndra laid a hand on Draven's shoulder, tears running down her cheeks.

— You… you are not a monster, she whispered.

— Thank you.

Then he died. His body dissolved into black smoke that strengthened the wall of specters. The five remaining warriors passed through the black marble door. Behind them, Balrog roared, slaughtering the specters one by one. But they had bought time. A few minutes. Perhaps enough.