Elius stood there, eyes narrowed, face like stone.
The air was tense. Thick. Every breath tasted like sand and copper.
Soilandor's grotesque body glimmered under the flickering dungeon light, his skin glistening not with moisture, but the glimmer of compacted grains—each one possibly older than some nations.
Elius lifted one finger. Just one. A casual, almost lazy flick.
SHNK!
One of his five flying swords streaked forward, whistling through the heavy air like a reaper's blade.
THWACK.
The sword pierced through Soilandor's ribcage with a clean hiss, driving straight through and emerging from the other side.
But.
Nothing.
No blood.
No shriek of pain.
No tremor of impact.
Just a low, shifting crunch as if someone had pressed their fingers into a pile of dry sand.
