Yet in the center, all that mattered was the King and Ren. Every other clash, every other struggle, faded into background noise, insignificant against the storm of authority that pressed from both sides.
Ren's fog writhed around him, black-blue tendrils reaching like fingers of judgment. The King loomed ahead, immense, shadow stretching, aura pressing like the weight of mountains. Each step he took made the ground tremble, each movement threatened to crush Ren, yet the boy advanced.
Nyxa's voice flowed inside him, calm and precise. "He bends reality with presence, but presence can fracture. Pressure him slowly. Do not rush. Find his rhythm, his hesitation, and exploit it."
Ren inhaled, the air thick with ash and mana, and moved. Tendrils lashed, black and alive, seeking weak points. The King struck first, fists of pure force aimed at Ren's core, intent to obliterate. Ren folded the fog, letting the strikes pass through empty space, twisting, snapping, yet never fully colliding.
