No shield in his current arsenal would deflect it, no clever tactic would bend it aside. It did not care for shadow or silence or speed. If that light touched him directly, there would be no staggering, no glorious stand, no dramatic wound to rise from later.
If it touched him… he would cease.
His body would disintegrate.
His core would be unraveled.
His soul would be burned from the weave of fate itself.
He would die.
The radiant dome around Wu Jinhai grew, twisting and expanding like a sun preparing to be born. The terrain beneath him turned translucent, then cracked. The corpses Damien had just slain, whether enemy or resurrected puppet, vaporized without a sound.
The battlefield, moments ago dominated by Damien's overwhelming slaughter, now quaked under the pressure of this new energy. The golden platform's edges flaked and splintered, unable to contain what had been unleashed.
Damien stood still.
Because now the real fight had begun.
