The impact of Michael's emerald energy on the obsidian crystal was less a subtle disruption and more a full-scale magical meltdown. A shockwave of raw, untamed dark energy erupted from the shattered artifact, tearing through the Overseer's chamber like a metaphysical wrecking ball. The Overseer himself let out a bellow of pure agony and incandescent fury, his connection to his shadowy patrons violently severed, his power momentarily flailing like a severed tentacle. The temple structure groaned ominously, ancient stones cracking and crumbling under the strain of the unleashed energies, sounding for all the world like a very constipated giant.
Michael, seizing the glorious chaos like a drowning man clutches a floating piece of driftwood, didn't linger to admire his handiwork. Survival, as always, took precedence over dramatic pronouncements. He turned and bolted, navigating the collapsing corridors with a surprising agility, dodging falling debris and the panicked, screaming cultists who were now experiencing firsthand the delightful consequences of their leader's poor interior decorating choices. His hastily acquired knowledge of the temple's labyrinthine layout, usually employed for avoiding tedious chanting sessions, now proved unexpectedly useful. He burst out into the moonlit night, the sounds of the temple's structural integrity taking a serious nosedive echoing behind him, the air thick with the acrid scent of unleashed dark magic. "Well," he thought, dusting off a chunk of fallen masonry, "that escalated quickly. Remind me to send the Overseer a strongly worded complaint about his shoddy magical infrastructure."