Garron's bellow ripped through the fractured clearing like a warhorn from an age when gods still walked among mortal men. Yellow Shinrei twisted around him, coiling like a molten serpent that refused to die. His bare feet dug into the torn soil, cracking the ground with every tense breath he took. The fifth gate pulsed open within him an ancient furnace roaring back to life and the air thickened until it felt like the world could scarcely contain him.
Juno stood opposite him, chest rising and falling, sweat glimmering across his cheeks, but his eyes those steady, ironbound eyes did not waver. He had no affinity, no crafted Echo Arts, no history carved into prophecy. What he had was bone, muscle, discipline, and the unyielding resolve of a boy who had seen his master die in front of him and chose to stand instead of collapse.
