The fire wasn't hot—it was divine. It was heat born of vengeance and precision, forged in the crucible of Atlas's rage and stitched with every drop of mana he had hoarded since the hour he stepped into the enemy's den. The spell scroll, ancient and inscribed with forbidden runes, pulsed like a living organ in his grip. And he fed it—fed it until it swelled, until the parchment itself began to tear at the seams, unable to contain the storm packed within.
The sky did not light up—it was devoured.
The eruption was not yellow but gold-white, a holy blasphemy carved into the world by mortal hands. It wasn't an explosion—it was a revelation. The camp didn't burn—it ceased. Metal turned to light. Flesh to mist. Stone to shadow. Dragons mid-flight were vaporized mid-roar, wings turned to smoke before they hit the ground. Airships crumpled like paper, their mana cores bursting into molten rivers as they collapsed inward like dying stars.
