Black Southern Cross: Record of the Dark Mystics
When the desert swallows the stars, the forbidden power awakens.
The ancient prophecy echoed through the chill night air as Prince Phobos stood upon the high balcony of the palace, his cold gaze scanning the sprawling, shadowed expanse of Meridian. Beside him stood his sisters, Will Vandom and Elyon Brown, their faces etched with the solemn weight of the coming storm. Doryu, the pumpkin-headed king, shifted silently in the shadows behind them, his carved visage glowing with an eerie, flickering embers.
"What? You want to release more prisoners?" Will asked, her eyes searching the darkened horizon. "Nerissa is stronger than ever. Next time the witch attacks, we'll need every bit of help we can get safeguarding the kingdom."
"Prince Phobos and I require bodyguards that pack more mystic might!" Doryu exclaimed, his voice ringing across the stone parapet with sharp authority. He turned to the tall, crown-wearing warrior standing nearby.
"Have any of the other dragons seen us in their dreams?" Leif, Deltora’s King, added, his hand resting tightly on the hilt of his sword. "We're not the first ones on the mountain, and if the ancient beasts are silent, it means something far worse is stirring."
Far below the palace heights, in the subterranean caverns where light was a forgotten memory, a disembodied voice drifted through the gloom. Who exactly am I? All is darkness around me... The lost soul groaned into the silent void, struggling against the weight of stolen identity and forgotten memories.
Above ground, near the grand borders where realms collided, the atmosphere twisted into surreal chaos.
"Well, how nice it is to see you again," King Gainer murmured, stepping forward alongside the imposing, masked figure known as the Black Southern Cross. Gainer squinted through the dynamic mist at the hulking, armored phantom blocking the path. "The Shadow Guard! I thought you were destroyed in the explosion! Why are you here in Symphonia?"
The phantom offered no answer, only the hiss of dark magic bleeding from its armor as the realm began to fold in on itself. The desert sands beyond the city borders swept upward in a colossal tempest, blotting out the constellation-specked sky until not a single glimmer remained overhead.
From the heart of that total darkness, a malevolent presence manifested—the Shadow Lord himself, stepping forth to claim the broken world. Doryu stepped between the dark monarch and the gathered rulers, his carved jaws parting as green hellfire ignited within his hollow skull.
The air was cold and dead as Doryu and the Shadow Lord were about to clash.
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