The pulsating heat of the core oscillated like a giant heart about to collapse, but the witch before it noticed none of this. All her attention was focused on the ritual—on the torrent of boiling mana coursing through her body, burning from within as if each nerve were an incandescent thread of liquid metal.
At her feet, dozens of kneeling witches trembled, sweated, wept, but remained bound to the mantra that fueled the core. The black mana poured from them like dense smoke, snaking across the floor before rising through the hollow crystal where the king was chained.
The solitary figure raised a hand, drawing more power to herself. Her closed eyes glowed a deep red—not the red of the crimson ice around her, but the vivid red of embers.
It was then that she felt it.
A gigantic pressure.
An invisible weight filled the entire hall, as if a colossal hand had been placed over the kingdom and squeezed.
Her eyes snapped open violently.
