Chronicles of the Engulfment

Faelar ran through the devastated city, his mind clouded by a mix of fear and rage. The distant screams of his companions and the crashing of collapsing buildings echoed in his mind like a funeral toll. His long golden hair, usually immaculate, was disheveled, plastered to his forehead with sweat.

His hands still trembled as he gripped his now-chipped short sword. He knew he couldn't escape Pirus, but every second gained mattered. Maybe Claude and the others could find a way to flee.

He finally reached the outskirts of the city, where a dense forest stood like a promise of refuge. Without hesitation, he plunged into it, his boots slipping on the damp roots and soft ground. But the forest itself seemed to conspire against him. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and columns of stone sporadically erupted from the earth, narrowly missing him. He had no choice: he was running for his life, desperate, not daring to look back.

But Pirus wasn't far. His voice, calm and relentless, rang out behind him, sharp as a blade.

"How far will you run?"

Faelar instinctively turned and caught sight of Pirus, standing atop a stone column that rose like a throne amidst the trees. His predatory smile gleamed in the dying light.

The Millennial Tyrant descended gracefully from his pedestal, landing in front of Faelar with an almost supernatural ease. "Running... just a little more effort. But you know, every second you gain is another minute to contemplate your own defeat."

The ground beneath Faelar's feet shook, and then a massive stone pillar suddenly erupted, sending him tumbling through the air. The pain knocked the breath out of him, but before he could even regain his senses, more stone columns rushed toward him, striking him from all sides. Faelar, like a disjointed puppet, was flung into the air with each impact, his arms and legs flailing wildly.

He had no time to prepare. He couldn't even defend himself. His vision blurred with each new jolt. The ground, which seemed to recede at a terrifying speed, was now just a distant memory.

Pirus, impassive, raised a hand, and with a dull thud, a thick stone blade erupted from the ground, slowly rising before him. The sword, like an extension of his will, hung in the air, ready to strike.

Faelar tried to regain his footing, his breathing heavy, his body battered. He tried to focus, but his thoughts were muddled by the pain and terror overwhelming him.

Pirus stepped closer, and with a sharp motion, he swung his sword. Faelar didn't even have time to scream. In one fluid, swift movement, Pirus slashed through the air and cut down the young elf's life with a motion as elegant as it was brutal.

Faelar's body froze in a grotesque pose, suspended in mid-air, then fell heavily to the ground.

Pirus observed the scene with an almost distracted air. "One less," he murmured with icy satisfaction. Then he turned, ready to continue his hunt, his cold laughter fading slowly as he disappeared into the shadows of the forest.