When Ibarin left the arena, his steps were sharp, deliberate, and heavy. He did not linger, did not slow down. He headed straight to the main building, to the office that he always returned to when the weight of the world pressed against his chest. The moment he crossed the threshold and shut the door, his composure cracked.
The Grand Magus paced back and forth across the floorboards. Each step was restless, hurried, almost clawing at the ground itself. The air inside the room twisted unnaturally, warping like a mirage. The flow of mana leaking from his body was so overwhelming that reality itself seemed distorted.
If anyone else had been in the room, their vision would have blurred, their stomachs churned, as if the walls and floor no longer belonged to the same dimension.
Ibarin's rage was rising, boiling, threatening to spill over.
