Steel of the Last Fang

Lagun's fists crashed down again, a four-pronged impact that detonated the ground around Asmodeus. Ice ruptured. Stone split in burning lines.

A frozen ridge collapsed onto itself.

But the smoke didn't part with Lagun's next blow.

It cleared on its own.

Evaporated.

Driven backwards by something deeper.

A pressure built beneath the battlefield—not magic, not fury—but something older than either.

The pulse of sovereignty.

The Earth felt it first.

Then the wind.

Then Lagun.

He froze mid-step.

His chest rose once.

Then stopped.

Asmodeus walked out from the ruins of the last blow.

Straight-backed.

Unbothered.

His cloak had burned away.

The sigil over his chest had vanished, replaced by black, jagged lines curling outward across his ribs, pulsing with coal-red heat.