The wind fell silent.
Shaurya stood amidst the ruins, his body bloodied and bruised, golden light leaking faintly through the cracks in his skin. His head tilted slightly forward, strands of hair falling over his eyes, his breath slow but steady.
From his chest, a soft, rhythmic pulse of golden light began to spread.
Thump… thump… thump…
Each pulse grew stronger.
The veins beneath his skin glowed like molten threads of sunlight, crawling up his arms and neck. The ground beneath his feet trembled, tiny cracks forming in all directions as if the very realm responded to the divine frequency in his blood.
Yang Ling narrowed his molten-gold eyes, his grin faltering slightly.
"What is this…?" he murmured, voice echoing low and cautious.
Then the grin returned—forced, cold, mocking.
"You're just struggling to stay alive, boy. Stop pretending to be divine."
But even as he spoke, the air began to shimmer.
