The sword left my hands, and then it wasn't mine anymore.
It tore itself free.
The blade of compressed soulflame and death mana didn't simply travel through space; it consumed it, ripping forward faster than sound could chase it, faster than thought could follow. The edge pulsed as it flew, not a steady glow but a living heartbeat, thrum, thrum, thrum each pulse unleashing another wave of annihilation.
With every beat, the world died a little more.
The ground beneath the arc didn't burn.
It ceased.
Ice, stone, soil, everything the swing passed over was reduced to glowing red plasma, the earth screaming as it liquefied into incandescent ruin. Heat washed outward in violent rings, flattening jagged ice formations, flash-boiling moisture into expanding shockwaves of steam.
The air split.
Not metaphorically.
