The instant the pill dissolved between Mankhaura's teeth, the battlefield convulsed.
A shriek—not of voice, but of existence—ripped through the air.
The arena, forged from sacred stone and laced with ancient enchantments, trembled beneath the sudden violation. Mana twisted unnaturally. A detonation of raw force erupted outward, not like thunder, but like the death of a star.
Space bent around Mankhaura's frame as if the world itself recoiled from what he had done.
The ground beneath him cracked, buckled, and then exploded in shards. The polished stone shattered like glass underfoot, spiraling upward in jagged fragments suspended in the cyclone of his aura. Dust, debris, and raw magic twisted into a vortex that reached toward the heavens, a pillar of chaos ripping through the tranquility of the blue sky.
It was not simply power. It was a desecration.
