Yxthul's silhouette flickered at the fringe of Nolan's vision.
Then it disappeared.
A moment later, it reappeared, then vanished again—an endless relay of presence and absence that stretched time beyond its limits.
Nolan caught himself blinking, mesmerized:
Yxthul, fading in and out like a ghost in dimming light.
For each glimpse, a flash of scaled skin, briny aura, predatory eyes; then emptiness.
On the other end, Yxthul's view mirrored Nolan's: an intermittently vivid image of a lone man in a villa's courtyard, arms crossed, watching, waiting, unnerving in his stillness.
This back-and-forth dislocation—blip, void, blip, void—went on for what felt like minutes, each party half-appearing, half-hidden, as though the veil between them was frail, tearing with every pulse of mana and dread.
Nolan's heart hammered. He knew his own system's reach was faltering, cracking under the weight of Yxthul's rising power.
