The obsidian halls of Atlantis had never felt more like home. Adam walked through the corridors of his palace, Luna's hand intertwined with his, her emerald hair catching the magmatic light that bathed the walls. Her green eyes sparkled with the satisfaction of recent victory, and she radiated a warmth that made his heart race after their long separation.
Three days. Three days since his generals had achieved the impossible—the death of Bahamut himself. While Adam busied himself with killing Vinéa, his army had faced the dragon god of order and his contracted lord, Maxwell, on the battlefield. The reports were almost too incredible to believe: Garduck scaling Bahamut's massive form, driving his blade between divine scales. Ifrit's flames eating at the wounds like hungry serpents. Shihan's arrows finding every gap in supposedly impenetrable defenses. And on the ground, six former imps—now ascended to fallen angels—standing against Maxwell's divine radiance and refusing to break.
