The chamber trembled—not from any earthquake, nor from the groaning bones of the mountain—but from the violent collision of two auras that were never meant to fuse.
The air hissed like boiling water.
The floor vibrated in waves.
And the ancient symbols carved into the stone walls flickered and pulsed, as if warning them all of what was coming.
It was the ritual.
And it was going wrong.
Akumo stood at the heart of the spiraling formation, his dark spirit flaring like a storm-lantern fighting its own winds. Richard's body lay suspended in the center of the convergence circle, completely unconscious, his spirit bleeding out of him in streams of blinding white. What should have been a controlled merging had become a wild storm.
Akumo's brows tightened.
He could feel things slipping out of his grip.
Richard's spirit wasn't just powerful—it was unrestrained, raw, untamed. And every second it continued to escape, the balance tipped further toward disaster.
The chamber shook again.
