The Proctor descended in arcs of divine light, his crescent-tipped staff cleaving through air, through flame, through the corrupted essence of the beast below.
Each swing traced glowing runes into the sky.
Each parry cracked the sound barrier.
The Doom Beast howled—its form cloaked in writhing smoke and pulsing flames. Malik's flames.
Twisted. Mutated.
The tendrils lashed like molten whips, searing craters into the arena floor with every miss.
The Proctor's feet never touched the ground.
He moved through the air like a dancer—defensive, controlled, graceful.
He wasn't aiming to destroy.
Not yet.
He was still trying to suppress. To capture.
He spun midair, divine chains spiraling from his staff. They latched onto the beast's arm and cinched tight with a hiss of burning light.
But the creature didn't slow.
With brute force, it shattered the chains—unleashing a blast of black fire in retaliation.
