An explosion echoed across the mountain range, powerful enough to make the entire sector tremble. Peaks cracked, stone avalanched, and the lightning storm momentarily warped under the violent surge.
Yet no one heard it.
The thunderstorm was too intense. The roar of endless lightning devoured the sound before it could travel beyond the range. What had occurred was swallowed by chaos, disguised as nothing more than another violent convulsion of nature.
At the heart of the mountain range, within a newly formed crater of molten stone and shattered rock, the Scarlet King stood above Zator.
The hermit Royal Blutlinie's face was peaceful—serene, even—like that of a man immersed in profound cultivation. It was a striking contrast to the sword that had pierced through his skull, flooding his brain, soul, and body with the suffocating stillness of the Quietus Force.
Cain's eyes were cold and methodical as he confirmed the result.
Zator was not dead.
