The barrier rattled under the strain, the black surface shivering with fractures that spread like spiderwebs across glass. Each impact boomed like thunder trapped beneath the earth. The sound was deafening, not the crash of stone or steel but something deeper, the galvanizing force of raw mana tearing through the atmosphere itself. The very air screamed as Van Dijk pressed. It was the kind of power that could not be mistaken. He was an Eight Circle mage, just a step beneath the peak of human magical mastery. To call him destructive was an understatement. An Eight Circle could match an army alone, could reduce kingdoms to ash if unopposed. And now all of that fury was concentrated against one fragile dome.
On the other side, Titania's clash never stopped and with each swing against the Werewolf more Holy Magic spread out to clash against where Ludwig and Mot Stood.
