Lagun's fists crashed down again, a four-pronged impact that detonated the ground around Asmodeus. Ice ruptured. Stone split in burning lines.
A frozen ridge collapsed onto itself.
But the smoke didn't part with Lagun's next blow.
It cleared on its own.
Evaporated.
Driven backwards by something deeper.
A pressure built beneath the battlefield—not magic, not fury—but something older than either.
The pulse of sovereignty.
The Earth felt it first.
Then the wind.
Then Lagun.
He froze mid-step.
His chest rose once.
Then stopped.
Asmodeus walked out from the ruins of the last blow.
Straight-backed.
Unbothered.
His cloak had burned away.
The sigil over his chest had vanished, replaced by black, jagged lines curling outward across his ribs, pulsing with coal-red heat.
His black eyes with small blue pupils now burned with a slit-pupil gleam, glowing faintly from beneath his brow like lanterns buried in ash.
