The iron catwalk groaned beneath Old Barnaby’s boots as he took a single, thunderous stride forward.
His regrown left arm blazed with crystalline crimson-gold pill-fire, illuminating the dark magma cavern like an erupting dawn. Where his molten fingers touched the air, the intense heat formed a shimmering shockwave that rippled across the subterranean lake.
The ten imperial tunnel-wardens backed away, their volcanic-glass armor clattering together in panic.
“He’s a Nascent Soul Late grandmaster,” the lead warden gasped, clutching his broken spear shaft with shaking hands. “Fall back to the defense runes. Form the turtle formation.”
“You aren’t forming anything in my kitchen, boys,” Barnaby rumbled, his voice thick with four decades of pent-up herb-shed fury.
He raised his iron alchemy ladle in his right hand.
Infused with the pristine volcanic force of his newly forged foundation, the simple kitchen tool turned into a screaming blur of crimson fire.
Barnaby dipped the ladle into the bubbling magma lake below the catwalk and flicked his wrist.
