Amid a desolate and mist-shrouded landscape, a towering gothic cathedral rises in the distance, its spires piercing the sky like the teeth of some ancient beast. The structure looms with intricate, crumbling arches and sharp-edged buttresses, exuding an air of foreboding and decay. At the forefront, a lone figure stands cloaked in a flowing robe of deep, blood-red fabric. The cloak billows unnaturally, as though stirred by an unseen force, its vivid hue cutting sharply through the ashen tones of the surrounding world. The figure’s presence is commanding, enigmatic, as if they wield an ancient and terrible power. Their posture is poised, one hand slightly extended, as though conducting the very essence of the air around them. Surrounding this spectral leader are five skeletal wraiths, their hollow eyes glowing faintly, shrouded in tattered black garments that whisper against the damp ground. Their faces, or what remains of them, seem locked in eternal torment, silently bound to the figure’s will. The air is thick with smoke and mist, veiling the path ahead, which is broken and littered with jagged stones. A sense of dread lingers in the stillness, broken only by the soft, haunting wails carried on the wind. The crimson of the cloak bleeds into the surrounding fog, staining the ground as though it carries the memory of countless lives lost. It is a scene of death, power, and inevitability—a tale of dark rituals and the rise of an ancient, unstoppable force.