Far away, across the vast distance where eyes alone should never reach, the Warchief of the Bersuka Tribe stood before the projection. His towering figure remained unmoving, his expression calm and grave as he watched his own son sent flying by a single punch. His gaze stayed fixed on the young man named Clay, as if trying to carve his image into memory.
There was no outburst.
No roar of anger.
No display of rage.
Only silence—the kind of silence that came when something beyond expectation had occurred, something that could not be explained away with pride or excuses.
His arms were crossed over his chest, muscles tensed, veins faintly visible beneath his skin, yet his face remained composed. His eyes were sharp and focused, analyzing every detail of what had just happened.
That punch…
No mana…
Pure physical strength…
His gaze narrowed slightly.
And yet… it broke my son's bone armor…
