Elliot spat a thick glob of crimson onto the stone, the blood frothing between his lips. He said nothing further.
There was nothing left—no anger to fuel his lungs, no words to bridge the chasm between his grief and Xerollion's indifference.
The silence that followed was worse than any scream; it was the sound of a soul finally breaking under the weight of inevitable defeat.
But the body has a stubbornness that the mind cannot control.
With a primal, guttural sound that was more animal than human, Elliot gathered every remaining spark of his life force. He focused on the core of his being, drawing on the last reserves of the Heroic Strike.
The white light didn't just glow; it screamed. It condensed around his fist into a sphere of pure, pressurized radiance so dense it began to distort the air around it like heat rising from asphalt. VROOOOOOOOM.
