The creature rising from the broken altar was not the God of Storms in the flesh.
As the violent plume of crimson lightning cut through the ash-choked sky, Kyle's spatial perception mapped the entity's internal structure in a single, silent instant. Beneath the scorched violet plate armor and the terrifying, oppressive aura, there was no biological core, no divine spark, and no beating soul.
It was a lingering memory—a condensed husk of Tempest's bitterest grief, animated by centuries of unrefined thunder mana and the decaying spatial energy of the Middle Pavilion. A spectral phantom forged from the last act of violence that had shattered this realm.
"It's an Echo," Kyle said, his voice flat, steady, and loud enough to cut through the screeching gale. "A divine remnant. Don't waste your high-tier domains trying to sever its soul—it doesn't have one."
