Varros surged forward with a cry that split the air, his voice a hoarse, furious growl.
"AAAAARRGGHHH!!"
The sword in his hand pulsed with molten light, the edge of the blade burning with flame-enhanced runes carved deep into its core.
It was no ordinary weapon—blessed by archmages of the eastern sanctuaries, refined in volcanic caverns, and enchanted with the calming power of Lilliflare petals, a herb known to ease minds and grant clarity in battle.
It was his pride, his soulbound relic—yet as the sword carved downward with explosive force, aimed directly for Yxthul's chest—
—it stopped.
No, it didn't just stop.
It landed.
But did nothing.
Not even a scratch.
The flaming edge did not pierce, nor even press into the creature's flesh. It halted the moment it made contact, like steel being tapped against a wall of water too dense to penetrate. The heat sizzled harmlessly in the air, flickering, flickering… and then faded.
