The sky split open.
As she neared the capital, Minus slowed her descent, hovering high above the spires. Mana surged inward, folding upon itself with precise control. The air around her thickened, charged with raw, concentrated power. Her staff trembled in her hand, vibrating as it absorbed the essence of the storm she was summoning. With each breath, the energy built—layered, condensed, and focused into a singular force.
Bolts of white-blue energy arced downward, not from the sky, but from her, tearing through the air with lethal intent. The first strike shattered the distant towers, a bolt of lightning so precise it tore through the heart of the Empire's defenses. The heavens cracked open, not by chance, but by her will.
She did not wait.
The storm she had called to life responded in kind. Dark clouds twisted tighter above, lightning chaining across the sky like veins of pure fury. Her magic coiled and spiraled, focused into an unstoppable mass of destructive energy.
With each step, the capital trembled.
She was not here to negotiate.
She was here to make them remember.
The Empire's defenders, too slow to react, scrambled to raise barriers of magic—spells meant to shield, to protect—but none were prepared for what Minus wielded. Her power, like a blade cutting through the fabric of their defenses, left nothing standing in its wake.
Fire, ice, and lightning surged at her, but they faltered before her command. She absorbed their mana, siphoning the energy from those who dared to strike at her, twisting it into her own power. They fell, their life force drained, their magic bound to her as fuel for the storm she was unleashing.
With each wave, the city crumbled. Buildings collapsed into ruin. The Emperor's own walls shook, and still, she advanced. The people who dared stand against her were little more than fuel for the furnace of her wrath. Soldiers and mages fell like autumn leaves, their bodies littering the streets, their magic ripped from their cores before they could even scream.
In the distance, a new figure emerged—Lowe.
He had come.
The last hope of the Empire.
The hunter. The one she had faced before. The strongest shadow warrior she had fought by far. He had survived their previous encounter, his resolve unshaken. Though she didn't know his name, she remembered the determination in his eyes, the relentless pursuit that had made him dangerous. She could sense him drawing closer, the weight of his presence shifting in the air. He was no ordinary opponent.
Lowe had arrived through the Empire's most concentrated mana flight spell—Tenebris Lift. Developed in the Empire's war chambers during a time when desperation outweighed reason, the spell bypassed the traditional method of gradual mana channeling by forcefully injecting external mana into a single vessel—channeling the strength of many into one.
It worked.
But it was suicidal.
No natural recovery. No correction mid-flight. No way to safely land without shattering your own core.
It was never meant to be used again.
Now it was their last chance.
The spell had carried him swiftly across the fractured land toward the capital, but it had come at a cost. His energy was spent, and his body was on the brink of collapse. The risk had been calculated. The outcome uncertain.
His feet hit the cracked earth near the shattered walls, and he rushed forward without hesitation. His weapon was drawn, his posture ready, intent clear. The storm above him howled in response, but he was already on his way. He had been trained for this moment.
But this time, Minus was not retreating.