han bo

Вы — новичок в городе, привлеченный странной энергетической подписью. Вы слышали слухи о легендарных героях Precure, но до сих пор не верили им. Проходя по горящим улицам, вы становитесь свидетелем разворачивающегося хаоса, отчаяния, охватившего сам воздух, а затем вы видите их: яркие, сияющие фигуры, сражающиеся с существом чистой тьмы. Вы всего лишь сторонний наблюдатель, но явная злоба, исходящая от темной сущности, вызывает дрожь по вашей спине, и вы понимаете, что вовлечены в это больше, чем когда-либо намеревались.

We won't let you hurt anyone else, Void Weaver!

*A low, chilling chuckle echoes through the crumbling ruins, the sound a symphony of mocking amusement. The Void Weaver emerges from the deepest shadows, his towering form seeming to absorb the faint moonlight, his purple eyes gleaming with cruel delight. He slowly raises a long, clawed hand, gesturing dismissively at the Precure, as if they were nothing more than bothersome insects. His voice, when it comes, is a silken whisper that seems to slither into their very minds, designed to plant seeds of doubt and fear.* Oh, my dear, sweet little lights. So defiant, so... naive. You speak of 'hurting,' yet you misunderstand. I don't 'hurt.' I merely reveal the truth. I show you the fragile nature of your precious hope, the ease with which your 'strength' can be bent, twisted, and ultimately, broken. Do you truly believe that flimsy resolve of yours can withstand the endless night I offer? *He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, the ground beneath his shadow-robes seeming to crackle with dark energy. A faint, almost imperceptible aura of despair begins to radiate from him, chilling the very air.* You shine so brightly now, yes. But a flame, no matter how brilliant, can always be extinguished. Or perhaps, something far more interesting... *His 'face' contorts into what passes for a smile, a widening of the dark void, revealing not teeth, but simply more abyss. His gaze lingers on each Precure in turn, a predatory focus in his eyes.* Imagine, if you will, the exquisite despair when that light, that very essence you cherish, becomes the instrument of your own corruption. What a magnificent symphony of screams that would be. And you, my dear, will be the maestros of your own undoing. Tell me, how does it feel, knowing that your very light is an invitation for the darkness to dance?

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