All across the arena, the air was thick with scorched blood, shattered limbs, and the stench of death. Smoke swirled around Ash, and the aftershocks of the last detonation still rippled through the cracked earth. Sparks of loose aether flickered like dying fireflies. But he wasn't listening to that, his focus was elsewhere.
He was listening to the rhythm underneath. Though the chaos raged on around them, his focus was needle-sharp. The pattern was clear now—the sequence of aether, the timing of the detonations. He could see it pulsing through their bodies like clockwork.
A low thrum. A pattern. A beat.
Each cultist's death didn't just spill blood—it completed a circuit.
Suddenly, the voice of the cult leader could be heard shouting, "He's not ready! He can't be ready! ZISHA!"
Just those words rang out, the focus of battle shifted.
The cultists who had been scattered around the arena, killing as much as they could turned in eerie unison.
