Neal didn't flinch.
He didn't run. He didn't beg. He stood tall.
And he whispered, "You're not my brother."
The ground beneath them rumbled.
Because in that moment, Neal's guilt stopped controlling him.
The pain didn't vanish, but something else surged forward and it was rage.
Not wild. Not mindless. But cold, sharp and focused rage.
He clenched his fist, and all the light in the world vanished — for one split second, the battlefield plunged into night.
The illusion froze mid-attack.
And then.
A detonation of color.
Neal's right fist glowed with prismatic light, every color of dawn condensed into a single point. Red, blue, violet, silver, light itself bent toward him, drawn to him.
"How daring of you to try to sully my memories of my brother?!," Neal growled.
He punched forward.
The world cracked.
A shockwave shattered the sky, peeled the clouds open like paper, and disintegrated everything in front of him.
No scream. No blood.
Just silence.