Rise of the White Dragon

The atmosphere was charged with the electricity of what was to come. In Luan's feverish mind, each advancement echoed as a prelude to future triumphs; he was on the verge of a decisive passage, about to enter the venerable Seventh Order.

However, an emergency call on his smartphone interrupted.

It was Grandfather Saulo, his voice laden with grave seriousness and an almost tangible tremor of urgency, reporting an unexpected calamity: a wave of maddened beasts haunted the peace of Minas Gerais city.

Beside him stood Ingrid, rising as one who accepts a shared fate, her eyes sparkling with common determination, she volunteered, "I will accompany you."

A concise nod sealed their tacit alliance—a silent 'Understood' conveyed a profound agreement between them amidst the turmoil of events.

Upon reaching the city, Saulo's report came to life before their eyes: a living mosaic of turmoil. The ether vibrated with the dissonance of wild roars, intertwined with the anguished cries of the inhabitants. Armed with scant resources, the citizens rose in resistance as fierce as it was desperate, against an avalanche of fangs and claws.

It was a battle not just difficult, but catastrophic. The supremacy of the wild beasts seemed a sentence already decreed.

Facing the chaos unfolding below, Luan took a deep breath. With a dramatic gesture of his hands, he summoned the substance of the firmament. A colossal hand, interwoven with the essence of argent clouds, emerged above the enraged mob.

It descended with the precision of a surgeon, delivering a devastating blow to the creatures, extinguishing them with a breath of pure force, sparing every innocent, as if nature itself had chosen to manifest its power.

Ingrid, descending from the cloud, her silhouette launched into flight with a pair of wings made of blood.

Luan watched Ingrid's descent, a vision of vigor and grace, her figure outlined against the sky as an angelic warrior in a ballet of wrath and beauty. She moved among the creatures with lethal elegance, each motion a reflection of her refined martial instincts.

Soon, Ingrid made her scythe appear.

Ingrid's blade sliced through the twilight like a red lightning, a specter of death that took the lives of the beasts with a grace that bordered on contradiction in the face of her relentless violence. Each kill was executed without hesitation—a steadfast commitment to her purpose; one creature lost its head beside another that was cleaved in two, and blood outlined the path of her war dance.

From his magical cloud above, Luan entered the fray, his hands weaving more aspects of the storm. Hands of condensation emerged like cannons from a celestial armament, unleashing their fury upon the beasts. The bodies of the creatures were tossed away, like leaves in the wind of a relentless gale.

The gazes of the citizens captured the actions of Luan and Ingrid, and in their chests, hope blossomed anew. A collective whisper swelled into exultation: they were being liberated! The arrival of the duo of warriors transformed terror into veneration, their silhouettes etched against the luminescence of redemption.

Of course, Luan and Ingrid ignored for now the exclamations of the survivors who were overjoyed by their arrival; they had more pressing matters at hand.

With wild impetus, Luan personified the storm, his engagement against the horde was relentless, his conjurations made the beasts collide against each other, their bodies deforming under the weight of the cloud hands, turning fierce predators into disfigured wreckage.

Advancing, his hand closed around the hilt of a fallen sword—a silent promise of a swift end. Wielding the steel, Luan struck with such speed that he left traces of his presence around.

In a single movement, a legion of beasts fell silenced; heads separated from bodies while arcs of blood painted the scene with shades of intense red.

Luan's precision was an art in itself, his mastery such that each step he took determined the end of an enemy. When a beast lunged forward, claws ready for destruction, he responded with a powerful strike, a block, and a counterattack so devastating that even the air seemed to vibrate with the force of his reprisal.

With the ferocity of a personified storm, Luan ascended, rising above the troubled land. Above him, an army of hands formed from clouds accumulated, a celestial chorus ready for their conductor's command.

They fell in a punitive deluge upon the beasts, each blow a symphony of strength and purpose. In an instant, his kick broke the air, a display of power so stunning it bordered on the supernatural.

Confronted by a creature with claws sharp as scythes, Luan raised his hands, weaving a shield of dark energy, an antidote against the monster's voracious Qi.

With a fluid motion of his wrists, he maneuvered the beast into a chaotic whirlwind, using its own mass as a deadly weapon, until the tide of violence was but a memory.

Luan brought to his hand, his sword the color of ice.

Upon landing, Luan's fury was unrestrained, his sword tearing through the air, eliminating the remnants of the horde with terrifying precision.

But then emerged a beast of the Sixth Order, its fierce eyes fixed on Ingrid with a clear and lethal intent.

Luan, with the impetus of a guardian, launched into a whirlwind of speed. He ascended and, with the sword slicing the wind in a perfect arc, his kick came down like the blow of an executioner, the creature's head exploding in a grotesque symphony of carnage.

Every monster slain bore witness to Luan's oath, a silent assurance that, as long as he stood, the light would persist, an implacable beacon against the shadows.

Luan, in his magnificent wrath, was the embodiment of combative divinity, each movement unleashing his immense power, his gestures resonating with the authority of thunder. His eyes glinted with a celestial flame and, with a cry that could tear the heavens, he summoned the fullness of the storm.

Lightning intertwined at his call, clouds coalesced into immense vortexes that sucked the creatures into an abyss of wind and thunder. For those who watched, it was like witnessing the primordial force of creation and ruin dancing in violent harmony.

At his side, Ingrid with her bloody scythe, moved with an almost supernatural rigor. With a graceful spin, she threw the weapon, transforming it into a crimson specter that tore through the sky, decimating the horde with an efficiency beyond human.

The scythe described deadly arcs, traversing miles in a mere blink, each return to Ingrid's hand marking the downfall of a legion of enemies. Her power was such that the very air seemed to split around her, the spilled blood of the fallen serving as a macabre tribute to her unrelenting fury.