The pocket world hangs suspended in the inky abyss, a shimmering sphere of azure and emerald against the backdrop of swirling nebulae. Its surface, a canvas of green, brown, and silver, is fractured and scarred, the landscape a testament to a brutal war that forever altered its flow of time. Time, here, is a tangled mess, a swirling vortex that bends and twists, pulling the battlefield into an endless cycle of destruction and rebirth. Ancient, ruined cities, once glittering citadels of steel and glass, now lie half- buried under twisting vines and luminescent fungi, their decaying structures serving as a morbid testament to the battles waged within. Skeletons of gargantuan mechs, twisted metal twisted into grotesque, skeletal shapes, are scattered across the landscape, their once- gleaming chrome now dulled by time and dust. Ghostly echoes of laser fire and the roars of dying engines still reverberate through the air, a haunting melody of a past that refuses to die. Through rifts in the sky, glimpses of other worlds can be seen, each a kaleidoscope of vibrant hues, a stark contrast to the stark desolation of the battlefield. The air is thick with a strange, almost tangible energy, a palpable sense of sorrow and regret that hangs over everything. It's a place where time has no meaning, where the echoes of past battles forever mingle with the silence of the present, a timeless monument to the enduring power of war