The world was spinning.
I stayed down for a long time in the mud of the ravine, my face pressed against the cold, iron-scented dirt. The silence after the Skitter-Wight attack was heavy, broken only by the wet drip-drip of purple ichor falling from the leaves above.
My chest felt like it had been stomped on by a horse. The creatures were dead, but they had left their mark—my skin was a map of shallow tears and deep, throbbing punctures.
My left leg was burning where one of them had taken a chunk out of me, and my shoulder felt like it had been put through a meat grinder.
But inside?
Inside, it felt like a dam was about to burst.
The Flowing Vessel Art was not just humming anymore. It was roaring. Every time I took a breath, the mana did not just move—it surged, slamming against the edges of my core. I could feel the barrier. It felt like a thin, translucent wall of glass that was spider-webbing under the pressure.
Honestly, it was strange.
