Her soft yet sharp voice echoed through the evergreen garden shaded by the darkness of the night. What followed was a peculiar sense of stillness, as though everything had been frozen in its place. The world lost its color as a pitch-black spherical microcosm imprinted itself upon reality.
It was over four hundred meters, veiling the entirety of the Winston Family's residence. In the middle of it all was a crimson-haired girl, who stood before a gargantuan clock whose hands ticked in reverse.
The shattered pavement recovered, the rubble faded and returned to their origin, and bloodstains dispersed into the healing bodies of those who lost their lives. Within the muted domain, causality didn't matter.
It was the power of what could be achieved in the summit of Blood Techniques. The moment when one imprints themselves on the world. They become gods of domains under their complete and utter control.
