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"I am," Phanthom admitted, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. "Victory is assured. There's no longer a challenge, no art to it. Even their desperate gambits lack creativity. This is mere slaughter, and slaughter bores me."

Phanthom turned away from the battlefield, his dark cloak billowing in the wind. "Malzor," he said, his tone carrying a hint of finality, "continue as you see fit. The ratmen are broken; there's no need for me here."

Malzor nodded, his gaze lingering on Phanthom. "And where will you go?"

"To find something… stimulating," Phanthom replied. "Perhaps a battlefield with a worthy opponent. Or a realm where the game is not so rigged in our favor."

As Phanthom began to fade into the shadows, he glanced back at the field of despair one last time. The ratmen's cries, the demons' laughter, the endless cycle of pain and torment—it was a masterpiece of suffering. Yet to Phanthom, it was nothing more than a canvas already filled.