The explosion of white flames tore through the battlefield, reducing the last remnants of the Manticore to ashes. The flames, twisting like celestial serpents, engulfed the vortex of miasma, transforming it into a rain of shimmering embers that faded into nothingness.
The ground, already scarred by battle, liquefied under the sheer intensity of the heat before solidifying into a sea of cracked black glass. The air, finally purged of corruption, vibrated with a sacred silence, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
When the light dimmed, only a smoking crater remained. Beriel lay at its center, his broken sword beside him. His right arm, where the corruption had taken root, was now nothing but a network of pulsating violet veins, like poisoned roots spreading through his flesh. His breathing was ragged, each inhale a battle against death.
