There was a strange silence that followed after Albedo said that.
It was the kind that came after something had been violently excised from the world, leaving behind a scar that reality itself needed time to remember how to heal.
The air still smelled faintly of ozone and burned mana. Heat shimmered above the cracked earth where the Abyssal anchor had been, and the ground bore fractures like old wounds that refused to fully close.
Albedo stood at the center of it, white-blue infernal flames slowly receding back beneath his skin. His breathing was steady, controlled, but his eyes were sharp, alert, already searching for what might come next.
Lucian straightened a few paces away, wiping blood from his cheek with the back of his glove. The radiant glow around him dimmed as he let his sword rest against the ground, point-down.
"That was… new," he said again, quieter this time.
