Back in the ravaged wasteland of Zone 16, the air was a hurricane of elemental chaos—shockwaves of raw magic ripping through the ruins of fallen cities. Swords forged from pure light burst from Caelum Virellan's will. Mountain-sized glaciers crashed down under Sylas Wynrow's command. Tharionson Magna unleashed waves of searing fire, while Regulus's electrified arrows lit the sky like thunderbolts. Tempest gales howled from Varyn Hone's strikes, Magnus Yaer delivered slicing torrents of wind, and Mystica Moonstone rained down overwhelming waves of Primordial energy.
All of it—every ounce of their combined fury—was hurled at one target: Sylvathar.
And still… it wasn't enough.
Bathed in divine light stolen from Sheila, his power amplified, Sylvathar withstood it all. The barrage hit him like a storm against a mountain—and the mountain didn't flinch. With a single surge of his hand, a pulse of green Myst exploded outward, blasting the seven warriors back like ragdolls.
