Mankhaura did not let up.
He lunged forward like a unchained beast, his movements fueled by adrenaline, rage, and desperation. Each step cracked the earth, sending tremors radiating outward. Dust exploded beneath his heels.
His spear gripped so tightly his knuckles had turned white, slashed through the air with primal intent—less a weapon now and more a force of nature, a howling tempest gave form.
The nine massive boulders and earth spear orbiting him roared in concert, their presence like celestial hammers circling a war god. Each one pulsed with earthen energy, glowing with a deep, throbbing brown light.
They moved independently but with eerie synchronicity—crashing into the arena, tearing stone asunder, then rising again, reformed as if the land answered to Mankhaura's wrath.
His strikes grew faster.
More erratic.
More violent.
The battlefield had become a storm, and Mankhaura was its eye.
