The old man finally spoke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
His voice slid through the sky like a blade through silk.
"My name," he said, violet light coiling faintly around his pupils, "is Qin Morian."
The name settled.
It didn't echo—but the air felt heavier for having heard it.
Several elders stiffened without realizing why.
Qin Morian lifted one hand.
The sky responded.
A vast formation unfolded above the battlefield, lines etching themselves into the heavens as if carved by an invisible hand. Violet runes rotated slowly, layered upon layered, forming a colossal sigil that blotted out the clouds.
Then—
Chains descended.
Not metal.
Not energy.
Something in between.
They poured out of the formation like falling serpents—thick, segmented links glowing with forbidden violet light. Space bent where they passed. Air screamed soundlessly as the chains wrapped around Lorgann.
The dragon roared.
Not in fury.
In pain.
