The scythe blade nailed into the ground, forcing the First Seat to retreat over ten meters before coming to a halt.
As Nesanel strode forward, even in the absence of flames, a distinct rise in temperature could be felt. The mist dissipated into nothingness, clearing the path in an instant. With the blazing sun cast by burning ether, a fiery hue spread over his robes and mask.
Nesanel continued onward, leaving behind a golden trail several meters long, emanating from the mane of his mask, scorching like flames.
As Aimou stood in a stupor, Geoffrey reached out and pulled her, his voice hoarse, "We need to get out of here."
Aimou belatedly felt the surging heat; the moist mist evaporated, the air rapidly dried, even the blood turned into a pungent gas dissipating away, and sweat covered Geoffrey's forehead.
Once they were caught in the Seekers of Glory's battle, the terrifying aftermath alone would be enough to kill them.
"First Seat."
