The battlefield held its breath.
It was not a metaphorical pause, nor was it a mere emotional hesitation among the onlookers. The physical atmosphere of the realm stopped its circulation, heat stopped dissipating through the air, and localized reality simply ceased its movement. Space stood completely still around the ruined plaza.
All because Ragnar had stood up.
For ten thousand years, he had remained bound—chained, sealed, and buried beneath structural layers of Authority powerful enough to suppress celestial gods. The weight of his imprisonment was supposed to be an immutable law of existence.
Now, he was standing.
Beyond the rift, even the primordial horror from the void stopped smiling. Its pale, titan-sized hand remained motionless against the edge of the fracture, its dark aura freezing in place.
