The crimson blade descended, and for an instant, the world collapsed into a blinding sea of white.
A thunderous explosion tore through the heart of the encampment. The earth fractured, spitting up jagged plates of stone as a crescent of violent, blood-red energy cleaved through the command grounds. Tents vaporized into ash, heavy supply wagons shattered into splintered rain, and iron-reinforced barricades folded like parchment. The sheer pressure launched bodies into the air—ragdolls caught in a localized tempest—before slamming them back into the churning dirt.
When the initial blast wave rolled outward, it snapped heavy oak banner posts like twigs. Down wind, timber watchtowers swayed, groaned, and collapsed into the inferno spreading across the camp. Billowing pillars of greasy black smoke climbed into the afternoon sky, blotting out the sun and leaving the once-impenetrable headquarters of the Black Iron Mercenary Group a blackened crater.
