The Master's Hand tore through the sky, faster and faster, each movement radiating kinetic force that grew heavier by the heartbeat. Energy coalesced into pure, unrestrained momentum, transforming the severed limb into a cataclysmic weapon. Every swing shattered the air, birthing shockwaves that cracked the fabric of space itself, not merely breaking the sound barrier but warping reality around it.
Across the Zanis Homeworld, countless battles raged—White Death against Pompeyo, Altharion against the alien Lord—but for a single frozen moment, all those clashes halted. Every warrior, every soldier, every monstrosity turned their gaze skyward.
They saw Vlad, the True Depravita of Wrath, plummeting like a meteor from the void, diving straight toward the incoming hand. Even from the distance, they could feel it—the wild, uncontainable pressure of the Master's Hand, its sheer mass of destruction. To any rational eye, it was clear: if the two collided, Vlad could not possibly win.
