The thunder of Aaron's dying cry had barely faded when the world lurched violently back into motion.
Holy mana still surged across the battlefield like a second dawn—brilliant, searing, too pure for the blood-soaked warfront it illuminated. The plains were shattered into uneven ridges and clefts, the ruins of ancient structures half-swallowed by the earth. Soldiers—human, elf, and beastkin alike—stumbled under the radiance, clutching their weapons as holy light washed through them. Wounds closed, breaths steadied, but fear intensified; the mana felt like a farewell as much as a blessing.
But none of that light reached the other side of reality.
Inside the fractured pocket dimension Aamon had created—an unstable realm stitched from darkness and collapsing time—the storm only grew darker.
Zero exhaled shakily, the sound too thin against the thunder of ripping space.
