By the thirtieth thunderbolt…he could no longer feel his hands. His fingers had become numb, useless appendages, unresponsive to his will. His legs felt heavier than mountains, each step an impossible effort.
Each breath sounded harsher than the last, a guttural struggle for air. His vision blurred so badly that the world appeared to swim before his eyes, a chaotic watercolor of light and shadow, occasionally pierced by the blinding flash of another bolt.
Another bolt came, and he raised one trembling arm, the motion slow, the limb shaking with the effort. Blue lightning burst from his palm, a weak, desperate, final surge of his own dwindling power, meeting the descending pillar halfway.
For a heartbeat, mortal storm collided with divine storm. Then—the divine lightning overwhelmed him completely, a tidal wave of raw energy. The impact blasted him through an entire ridge, a solid wall of rock dissolving around him, before burying him beneath tons of shattered stone and debris.
