What followed next was absolute carnage.
The Crimson Castle lay in shattered ruins, entire sections reduced to rubble. Bodies were strewn across the grounds, lifeless and broken, their blood soaking into the cracked earth. The thick stench of iron, burnt flesh, and smoldering debris polluted the air, making every breath a struggle.
Both Saints and mortals alike, all invaders to the Crimson household, had been slaughtered like pigs, their bodies strewn around and desecrated.
Beyond the waterfall, the Sacred Grove was devastated—the explosion having ravaged everything. The once-vibrant grasses were scorched black, the towering trees shriveling into charred husks. Smoke rose in dark, suffocating waves, spiraling into the sky like a funeral pyre.
Cough. Cough.
A series of harsh, wheezing coughs broke through the silence. From the wreckage, Lyra stumbled out, her body weak and trembling. Veronica supported her, both of them covered in soot, their skin marred by burns and wounds.
