The arena shook.
Vorgan didn't hold back anymore.
His runes blazed blood-red across his arms and neck, each one igniting with a visceral heat that shimmered in the air.
His breath came out in visible huffs, and as he charged, the very earth beneath him cracked with each step. Mana gathered thick around his hammer—a molten aura that twisted and churned like liquid iron.
The crowd roared as one, sensing the shift.
This wasn't just rage.
This was bloodline magic.
Ian didn't move at first. He watched. Measured.
Then he breathed in.
The air grew cold.
Not in temperature, but in presence—the kind of chill that doesn't touch the skin but wraps around the soul like a chain.
His pupils narrowed. The two bone daggers in his grip began to flicker, first faintly, then brighter with every heartbeat.
A pale gray flame—cold, otherworldly, and silent—engulfed them.
Soulflame.
