Without even a word, Medoran hovers above the city like a burning god of fire. His crimson armor glows white-hot at the joints, molten veins pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath the plates. His hand stretches out—open, then closes into a fist. A deep hum echoes across the sky as heat coils around him, air warping violently.
Then, in a single, fluid motion, he releases it.
A Tier 5 skill slams down from the heavens—a roaring fist of flame and force, wrapped in spiraling embers and screaming winds, aimed directly at the center of Braenhall.
But—
Nothing.
No screams.
No running.
No panic.
Not a single soldier flinches.
A split second before impact, a wave of pitch-black energy erupts from the ground, swallowing the attack whole. The flame disappears with a muffled hiss—like a candle snuffed out underwater. Not even smoke remains.
Medoran's brow rises in visible surprise.
And then—
A voice, sultry and amused, threads through the air like silk laced with thorns.
