The colossal hand remained still for a moment—pressing, grinding, sealing Northern into the broken land beneath. The ground fractured in spiraling patterns, as if struggling to hold the weight of the suppression. Dust and debris floated upward, reverse-falling in slow motion due to the domain's warped pressure.
Rughsbourgh stood a short distance away, watching, waiting.
Then the hand twitched.
A sharp pulse of crimson light flared through the cracks—like veins bursting open in stone. One beat. Two. The third came with a deafening crack.
The massive hand convulsed.
A low hum echoed through the sky.
Then the dark hand exploded from within.
Fragments of condensed shadow spiraled outward in controlled chaos. And there he stood, hunched slightly, steam rising from his bare shoulders. One side of his body was scorched raw, bones visible where skin had torn—and even then, it was slowly healing. Threads of Chaos knitted tissue like a tailor working madly under moonlight.
