The battlefield had become a storm.
Herios moved—a blur of motion, golden light trailing in the air behind his sword, Pluton.
Each strike he unleashed aimed to cleave through the Divine Spirits that hovered around him like vultures, circling and taunting.
Yet they were cautious, keeping their distance.
They had seen the Sword of Truth fell Veron's army in a single, blinding arc of light.
They would not take that risk again.
So they bombarded him instead.
Blades of wind, bolts of heavenly fire, shards of frozen light—all rained down from the sky.
The heavens themselves felt like they'd turned against him.
Herios gritted his teeth, cloak torn and body coated in soot and blood, his muscles screaming with every breath.
He swung his sword upward to slice through a wave of searing light.
He spun to deflect a jagged bolt of lightning that might have torn his side open.
He staggered from the shock of a divine blast exploding behind him.
But still, firm as ever, he stood.
