The three wizards who were running away simultaneously stopped and looked up.
There was no fear on their faces, not even astonishment, only a blankness that comes when facing an irresistible force.
They raised their shields, activated their witchcraft artifacts, burned their bloodlines, and exerted all their strength to block that strike.
A golden shield, a silvery-white light cover, and a dark red bloodline barrier—three layers of defense stacked together, enough to withstand a strike from a Level 3 Mage.
A black palm descended.
The shield shattered, the light cover dissipated, and the barrier crumbled.
Their figures disappeared in the flames, without even having time to scream.
Though they weren't turned to ash, they were completely erased, from body to soul, from existence to trace—everything was obliterated by that palm.
No bloodstains on the ground, no scorch marks, not even the place where they stood—they were reduced to a void.
