Within the arena, where the stench of death intertwined with the aura of numerous battles fought, there was a flicker—a tiny dot hovering above the fingertip of a gauntlet.
This dot grew by the second, greedily gobbling up the empty husks of slaughtered berserkers. Their bodies, like discarded pawns, spiraled towards the pitch-black dot, disappearing within its grasp.
There was a slight distortion in the air as it swelled, its hunger expanding in unison. Time started to curve in perplexing ways, adding to the disarray.
The fallen pillars crumbled into shards, and rose, twirling within a vortex around the dot—now as big as a golf ball.
As it grew larger, the arena's very essence began to warp. The ground quivered, dust particles were kicked up.
As it grew further to the size of a baseball, its effects rippled outward, altering the accustomed laws of the reality around it.
