The plateau kept fracturing beneath the Watcher's aura, and cracks opened through the raw gold veins under Hajin's boots.
Bright metal gleamed inside every new fissure, as though the mountain bled money under the strain.
He could not spare attention for treasure while every breath threatened to tear his chest open.
He remained standing, though the pressure had nearly emptied his lungs and dragged his body toward its breaking point.
Every heartbeat pushed borrowed time through veins that felt packed with hot sand.
His vision pulsed between red and gray while the timer burned at the corner of his sight.
Twelve seconds of this pressure would shatter an ordinary nine-Shard fighter into paste.
The Watcher tilted its head while it observed him, its aristocratic face showing no strain at all.
"I must admit that I am rather disappointed," the Guardian Beast said while stepping forward through the screaming wind.
