The night air was still thick with the residual energies of the cataclysmic battle—traces of holy wind and abyssal corruption mingling in a discordant symphony. August stood amidst the devastation, his breathing steadying as he allowed his mana reserves to slowly replenish. The prophetic compass was safely tucked into his robes, its presence a quiet hum against his chest.
Then, his senses picked up a familiar presence approaching at speed.
It was Vanne.
August turned, his gaze sharpening as his mentor materialised from the shadows. Vanne's golden robes were slightly dishevelled, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. More tellingly, there was a person in his hand—a figure that was seriously wounded, their body limp and bloodied.
