Tycondrius sensed that something was... off. The air had grown still. The stink of smoke and charred meat had grown stale.
The kneeling man did not fall.
Dragan furrowed his eyebrows, nudging the cultist over with his great-weapon, Dread.
They slumped to the ground. Though fragments of the human's skull were missing, and the pink fat underneath was exposed... only a tiny dribble of blood flowed from the grievous injury.
"Huh. That's weird," The Titanblood turned back to Tycon. "Time magic? Is there somethin' stronger than Adamantine-Rank hidden around here?"
Tycon scanned the battlefield... None of the cultists yet moved. They remained eerily still, religious fervor still frozen on their faces. Some even levitated in mid-air, caught in the middle of a run.
"Unlikely, Mister Dragan," He shook his head. "More probable is that the Reality Marble's overseer has finally had enough of our antics."
