Venus D. Romero, my so called grandpa sitting behind us with that eternal half-smile, leaned back in his chair and said quietly, "Ah…now this is where the fun begins."
The man on the elevated platform growled as he tried picking up the sword.
His hand tightened, body straining, with muscles outlined beneath the robe.
But the blade didn't move.
Another explosion of energy shot outward, striking the protective barriers around the VIP lounges.
The glass before us rippled like water, the protective seals glowing briefly.
Without them, I realised, we might've been shredded by the sheer force of the sword's rejection.
The man staggered again. His knees softening.
The glow around the hilt grew brighter, the cracks along its black surface pulsing like a beating heart.
For a moment, I thought he might succeed. For a moment, I thought the sword would actually yield.
But then—
A deafening crack rang out.
