Reaching the Overseer's inner sanctum undetected was a testament to Michael's rapidly evolving skills in stealth and his growing control over the island's shadows. He moved like a phantom, slipping past chanting acolytes and heavily armed guards with an almost supernatural grace. He disabled arcane traps – pressure plates that triggered bursts of dark energy, glyphs that shimmered with malevolent intent – with precisely aimed bursts of his own emerald energy, his control becoming more refined with each passing day.
He finally stood within the Overseer's presence, the cult leader lost in his fervent ritual, his eyes rolled back in his head, his focus entirely consumed by the pulsating crystal on the altar. Michael knew this was his one, precarious opportunity, a gamble with the very darkness that permeated this place. He channeled all his will, all the raw, untamed power within him, into a single, focused beam of emerald energy. He didn't aim for the Overseer himself; that seemed too direct, too… polite. Instead, he targeted the crystal, the apparent nexus of the Overseer's power, the conduit to his unsettling deities. The air crackled with anticipation, the silence broken only by the Overseer's droning incantations and Michael's shallow breath. As the emerald energy hurtled towards its target, Michael muttered under his breath, a sardonic prayer escaping his lips, "Well, here's hoping this isn't covered by the temple's insurance policy."