Clouds boiled and thinned across the layered peaks, lending the mountains a restless grace. Below them lay a carpet of demon corpses, a river of black blood, a tableau as eerie as it was grotesque.
There was no prelude.
Orson rolled the Supreme Arcane Blade in his grip. His long hair, now streaked with white, streamed in the gale. A skyful of dark red stars flared to life. Great Wasteland meteors dropped like a storm, each one packed with world-ending force as they fell.
Bellara lifted her sword and cut the air. Light flashed. Sword beams crossed and lockstitched into a flawless curtain that spanned the sky.
She parried the incoming chaos orbs as if swatting hail. Not a seam in her guard.
Orson showed no surprise. This was divine strength. Even with absolute range advantage, he could not poke through.
He did not relent. He lifted an open hand into empty air and pressed. The sigils along his arm burned, and the elements obeyed. An invisible hand slammed downward.
