From the mist, thicker than darkness, emerges a silent apocalypse. A rider in armor of light-devouring obsidian, his eyes points of cold blue flame. Beneath him, a ghostly serpent: a leviathan of phosphorescent fog, its maw a vortex of oblivion. They are one entity. The serpent's spectral form is fused with the rider's plated limbs, his frozen gaze flowing down its spine like venomous light. They move in utter silence, warping the world around them: sound dies, color drains, and the air chills with despair. He is no mere warrior. He is the herald of the end, a devourer of reality. His arrival is not a battle, but a quiet extinction.