The aftermath of the annihilation was a landscape of hellish geometry. Black smoke, thick and oily, billowed from the jagged craters that now scarred the edge of The Wailing Woods. The torrential rain, which continued to pour with a vengeful intensity, failed to extinguish the flickering purple flames—the remnants of Dayat's anomalous energy—that were slowly consuming the silver-armored remains of the Inquisition.
Dayat stood in the center of the devastation. His breathing was a series of heavy, metallic rasps. Steam rose from his drenched clothes as if his very blood were boiling, a physical manifestation of the energy surge that had just defied every known law of human sanity in Aethera. His hands were stained with a mixture of mud, soot, and a darkness that wasn't physical.
