And the aftermath was… chaos. Glorious, smoking, slightly singed chaos.
Healers rushed in first, robes flapping as they tended to the stunned, the scorched, and the one unfortunate knight who had fainted purely out of principle. Potions were uncorked, diagnostic spells flew, and at least three people were ordered to sit down and stop screaming, you're fine.
Mages immediately forgot the existence of fear.
They swarmed the testing platform with quills out, arguing mid-sentence, scribbling diagrams in the air, on parchment, and—regrettably—on each other's sleeves. One was laughing. Another was crying. A third was repeating, "That shouldn't be possible," like a prayer.
Blacksmiths did not fare as well.
Several stared at the warped remnants of metal in stunned silence. One dropped to his knees and whispered goodbye to his hammer. Another hugged an anvil. Two of them cried quietly, openly mourning techniques passed down for generations that had just been rendered… optional.
