And by logic, Atticus should still be contained.
This should have been pointless.
He should have still been helpless, powerless, outmatched in this situation.
That was what logic said.
That was what the projections screamed.
So why… did something feel wrong?
A slight twist stirred in Xal'zereth's core, a sensation he had no name for, a defect he rarely experienced.
Something was coming.
Something beyond numbers. Beyond control.
And he hated it.
He stared harder at the boy floating midair.
The Unknown.
And Xal'zereth would have none of it.
His three-fingered hand rose coldly, calmly. An orb of condensed mana flared into existence at his palm. It pulsed once, twice, then began to grow.
A radiant sphere of devastating density, swirling with violent currents of energy, emitting a high-pitched whine as it charged.
And then, it launched.
It tore through the sky like a comet of death, searing a path of light as it screamed toward Atticus.
