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"It actually worked… Gods above…"
Kevan—formerly the outpost captain of Sighing Gorge, which had since been overrun by Selwyn's forces—stood at the heart of Aleisterre's frontline encampment. His voice was barely a whisper, drowned in awe as he stared at the distant heavens along with countless others, where a burning meteor was falling from the night sky.
"This power…" he murmured, his eyes wide. "It's inconceivable. Is this truly the might of magic?"
Beside him, Nurse Jenny, head of the frontline infirmary, could only nod with awestruck reverence and fear.
The meteor, suspended in the firmament, burned with apocalyptic brilliance. Its radiance pierced the darkness even far into the distance. It descended not with the furious speed, but with terrifying deliberation, as if it were judgment made manifest.
It was colossal, as vast as a mountain, but hardly a celestial object. It was a culmination of mortal ingenuity, a spell created by the hands of Aleisterre's own mages.
A miracle forged in flame and fury, this pseudo-eighth-tier spell. Its structure was crude compared to the refined elegance of...
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