Clay moved.
There was no wasted motion. No warning. No buildup that the eyes could follow. One moment, the Warchief charged forward with everything he had. His third phase burned through his body like a storm that refused to settle. The next moment, he stopped.
No.
He was stopped.
Clay's hand had already reached him.
His fingers closed around the Warchief's face. Firm. Unyielding. The violent charge came to a halt, as if the force behind it had never existed at all. The impact that should have shaken the earth never came. The ground remained cracked and broken, yet no new destruction followed.
It was as though everything had been cut off.
Silenced.
The Warchief's fist hovered inches away from Clay. Frozen. His entire body locked by the grip that held his head in place.
For a moment, he did not understand.
Then the reality sank in.
His body strained.
His muscles tightened.
