The Western Ridge smoldered.
It was a canvas of violence and invention.
Cratered earth hissed with golden residue. Crystalline structures jutted from the ground—spontaneously grown from Maverick's unstable, volatile Alchemy magic. Corpses of E'Sherils lay strewn about, some melted, others transmuted into ash, metal, or unrecognizable materials.
Maverick stood at the center of it all, shirt torn, his body marked with glowing alchemic glyphs. His wings shimmered, pure silver and crackling with residual transmutation energy.
He cracked his neck, letting out a long breath.
"Twenty-four. Not bad. But Stygian's probably already at thirty. Damn freak."
He raised his hand, and three arrows made of pure golden glass formed mid-air, orbiting his wrist like a spell halo.
They fired without warning—FWIP. FWIP. FWIP.
Three E'Sherils dropped instantly, their skulls punctured with alchemic spikes that shattered on impact and flooded their minds with destabilizing essence.
Then it hit.
