CHAPTER - 171 - RETREAT_OF_THE_REALIST! /13.11/

Reza's boots scraped through the dirt, plasma coils around his arms hissing like a nest of cobras. His golden hair, usually slicked back with smug perfection, was now matted to his forehead with sweat and dust. He stomped through the wasteland's cracked ridges, boots sinking into ash and scorched gravel.

His single good eye burned with that highborn rage — the heir of Priest's bloodline, scanning for any sign of the coward who'd dared draw blood from him.

Then—

KRACK!

A muffled echo snapped from some unseen perch. Reza's pupils shrank to pinpricks. But this time he was ready — the air around him distorted, a blazing dome of his blessing flickering into existence.

A dozen plasma beams sprang up like a cage of sun-hot threads. The bullet slammed into the barrier — hissing, splitting, melting—

—except it didn't.