The name lingered in the air far longer than it should have.
Thousand Hammer Crucible.
It did not echo. It did not thunder. It simply existed, heavy and immovable, like a slab of ancient stone laid across the chest of the world. Even the drifting ash seemed to hesitate, its slow descent stalling as though the mountain itself were listening.
Luca stood unmoving.
Not because he had accepted it.
Not because he understood it.
But because his body had reached the edge of what it could process.
The dagger trembled faintly in his blood-slicked hand. His grip tightened instinctively—not with strength, but with stubborn refusal to let go. His vision swam at the edges, the world blurring and sharpening in uneven pulses, and somewhere deep inside his chest his heart beat far too loud, far too fast, like it was trying to escape before the rest of him collapsed.
Around him, the reaction came in waves.
