A maniacal smirk formed on Ossa's lips as he noticed Gimli's hesitation. "I've got you," he whispered.
Gimli hesitated, torn between his duty to protect his people and the fury of his opponent. But Ossa, consumed by rage, had no such reservations. He was willing to endanger the dwarfs if it meant breaking their vice chief.
Ossa moved with a practiced grace, his motions mimicking an ancient dance—a technique he had learned from Gaia. It allowed him to tap into the mana of the world, an unending supply that far surpassed his own reserves. This technique, so powerful and rare, could only be used three times in his entire life—a limitation imposed to prevent its abuse. But Ossa felt that the current situation demanded its use.
He knew that if he relied solely on his own mana, it wouldn't be enough. His aura was already stretched thin, most of it used to protect Bel with a shield strong enough to withstand two attacks from a divine creature.
