When the fissure in space opened, it did not do so with a bang or a violent tear. It parted like silk under a master's blade, revealing a void of absolute, terrifying serenity.
From that crack stepped the Founder. He did not fly, nor did he walk upon the ruined earth. He simply was. His presence felt like the sudden appearance of a mountain in the middle of a flat plain, an objective reality that could not be ignored or bypassed. His robes, woven from threads that seemed to capture the light of dying stars, did not flutter in the wind. The wind itself had died, strangled by the sheer density of the Founder's aura.
The General of the Dark Alliance, a level 135 nightmare that had just been mocking Ethan with the casual cruelty of a god, froze. The hundreds of eyes covering its body, previously darting with predatory glee, all dilated in unison. The flickering flame atop its head, a symbol of its dark vitality, sputtered and turned a sickly, pale blue.
