The shattered vault of the throne room offered no shelter from the storm tearing through the upper layers of the sky. When the Greatsword of Final Carnage decomposed into generic grey dust, the brass dome overhead did not simply fracture; it folded inward like a crushed kettle, opening a vast, screaming window into a sky filled with a freezing vortex of molten iron shrapnel. Millions of white-hot splinters, each one the size of an anvil, spun through the dark purple vacuum, whistling with a pitch that could strip the flesh off a man's knuckles.
The Void-Galleon took the full weight of the atmospheric collapse, its main timber frame buckled upward along the central keel line, the sound of the straining wood a constant, low shriek that vibrated through every cabin.
[Synchronization: 89.0%]
[Level: 140]
