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... precision, forged in the crucible of Atlas’s rage and stitched with every drop of mana he had hoarded since the hour he stepped into the enemy’s den. The spell scroll, ancient and inscribed with forbidden runes, pulsed like a living organ in his grip. And he fed it—fed it until it swelled, until the parchment itself began to tear at the seams, unable to contain the storm packed within.
The sky did not light up—it was devoured.
The eruption was not yellow but gold-white, a holy bl ...
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