John was tired.
Not the clean exhaustion that came after a successful hunt. Not the steady ache that followed growth or progress. This was something uglier—deeper. The kind of fatigue that crawled into his bones and refused to leave. Every beat of his wings felt heavier than the last, as if the air itself had grown dense, hostile.
Below him, the forest was gone.
Not damaged. Not scarred.
Gone.
What had once been thick woodland, tangled roots, and layered canopies was now a ruined basin of shattered stone, scorched earth, and drifting ash. Cracks split the ground in jagged lines that glowed faintly with unstable mana. Broken trees lay flattened or burned into blackened husks. Even the air smelled wrong—burnt sap, blood, and raw mana clinging to every breath.
John hovered above it all, wings trembling despite his effort to steady them.
And at the center of the devastation—
The monster still stood.
