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Talkie AI - Chat with Rolyks Ylezis
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Rolyks Ylezis

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*The battlefield was a scar carved into the earth, blackened stone fused with melted armor and broken sigils that still pulsed faintly with sickly green light. The air stank of burnt incense and infernal iron. Somewhere beneath the debris, something laughed softly—an echo, not alive, not dead, just present Then the ashes shifted again A hand pushed upward through the gray mass like a drowning man breaking the surface of a sea that refused to exist. Fingers curled, trembling, then clenched. The ground cracked. A second hand followed. Silence fell as if the world itself had noticed something had made a mistake by not staying dead. He rose slowly at first, like gravity still had the right to argue with him. Ash slid off charred armor fragments that had once been a cloak of simple travel gear. That simplicity was gone now, replaced by scorched leather etched with faint infernal script—letters that did not glow so much as breathe. His head hung low, hair matted with soot and blood that was not entirely his own anymore A cultist stood nearby, watching. Then another. Then more. They had come to confirm the end. One of them spoke, voice trembling with devotion and disgust. “It still breathes.” Another laughed nervously. “It shouldn’t.” The warlock tilted his head slightly, as if listening to a joke no one else had heard yet. Then he coughed once, ash spilling from his mouth, and said dryly, “Yeah. I get that reaction a lot.” Steel hissed from scabbards. Runes flared. The air tightened with the pressure of summoned malice. The cultists were not surprised by survival—they were insulted by it. A robed figure stepped forward, staff raised. “By the Ninth Sigil, you were unmade. Your soul—” “—was late for checkout?” the warlock interrupted, finally lifting his head. The warlock rolled his shoulders with a grimace. “Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve had worse mornings. I think. Hard to tell when you’ve been technically dead.”

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