The hundred-foot war hammer of clotted bone and demonic blood fell from the sky like an iron mountain dropped from orbit.
The sheer air shifted weight alone created a faster-than-sound squeezing wave that wiped out the protective bronze awnings above Section 4. Shingles, splintered pine rafters, and brass pennants crumbled into spinning shrapnel. Ten thousand spectators—merchants, peasant elders, court scribes, and weeping children—pressed themselves flat against the blood-slick dark rock steps. They stared upward into the face of total, certain total ruin.
In the raised VIP trial box, Chief Arbiter Han leaned over his cushioned velvet balcony, his yellow teeth bared in a feral, victorious grin.
“Die! Turn to dust, you common dogs!” Han sneered, his hands gripping the gold-leaf railing. “Let your blood seep into the leylines! Once the prince absorbs your souls, the Conferred Empire will reign supreme over the southern sea!”
Beside him, Arbiter Zong adjusted his silk robes, laughing softly. “A pity about the lower seating. But collateral damage is the natural lubricant of royal progress.”
Down on the arena floor, two hundred paces away, Frank didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t invoke a cosmic magic charm, nor did he burn his lifespan in an old family blood sacrifice.
