The sky was still red.
Even hours after the battle, the Great Volcano continued spewing smoke, ash, and small amounts of magma through the cracks spread across its slopes.
The heat remained suffocating, a heat that came not only from the volcano but from the earth itself, as if the entire mountain were feverish.
But now there was silence.
No roars of spiritual techniques colliding.
No clash of weapons echoing through the mountains.
No killing intent filled the surroundings like a poisonous fog.
Only the distant sound of lava slowly flowing down the slopes, a constant sound, like the breathing of a sleeping beast.
Kyrian remained seated on the black stone where he had fallen after the battle.
Eyes closed.
Breathing slow and measured, not the rapid rhythm of exhaustion, but the controlled pattern of someone recovering.
His clothes were still torn and burned in several places, revealing deep cuts that had already partially healed.
