Ethan stood unwavering, the stone beneath his feet cracking in widening spiderwebs. The air around him pulsed with radiant distortion—waves of raw pressure clashing violently against Ashtora's command.
"Kneel," she had said.
But Ethan had replied:
"No."
The chamber shook as the clash of Wills turned into something more. Threads of thought became blades. Intent became weight. And bodies began to move.
Ashtora descended from her throne, slow but steady—each step elegant, terrible, drenched in authority. Her ten-spiked tail swayed behind her like a serpent of war, carving shallow grooves into the throne room's obsidian floor. Each of her four arms radiated psychic filament—force condensed into physical mass.
Ethan narrowed his eyes, and the golden portal behind him vanished. There was no escape. No retreat. Only conquest.
She struck first.
Her forward-left arm clenched, then blurred—a fist laced with psychic flame tore toward Ethan's chest like a comet.
