Luke was casting an eighth-circle spell. It was still in the early stages, the seventh circle only now emerging into view, but the sheer amount of mana it drew in made the air shimmer and distort as if we were submerged underwater. It was a breathtaking sight, both ethereal and ominous, with a growing sense of impending doom radiating from it. This was no mere protection or buff spell; this was a spell of large-scale destruction, akin to the one the Curse Demon Lord had unleashed at Western University.
And yet Grace, locked in combat with the Edrin, the air apostle, seemed entirely oblivious to the looming danger, continuing to exchange blows at an almost leisurely pace. Their exact movements were hard to discern through the swirling tempest of clouds, wind, and rain each attack generated. Occasionally, I could glimpse their silhouettes illuminated by flashes of lightning that pierced the downpour, but had no idea of either's actual abilities.
