The world outside the dome was a cacophony of destruction.
It was a storm of black fire, crushing gravity, and blinding light. The sound was a physical weight that rattled the bones and liquefied the organs. The three Elites were not holding back. They were pouring their souls into breaking the shell, screaming as they tore at the supernatural ice.
But Vane was silent.
He was a shadow detached from the chaos. He was suspended in the air, his body parallel to the gantry, his spear extended like a silver needle.
He did not aim for the center. He aimed for the flaw.
The crack in the ice was hairline thin. It was a microscopic hesitation in Isaac's mana, a seam where the repair spell had failed to catch up to the destruction.
Vane's spear hit the seam.
There was no explosion. The Silver Fang did not detonate on impact. It did not try to overpower the ice.
It severed it.
