"Quin! Quinn! What happened!?"
The sound of rushing footsteps echoed through the dimly lit corridor as Locke shouted. Martin stood at the door of the cell, gripping a long red sword. His stance was unusual—feet staggered, knees slightly bent, and chest thrust forward, as if bracing for an imminent impact.
He was indeed preparing to withstand a considerable force.
Silently counting the seconds, Martin awaited Locke's arrival at the ramp ahead. His left pinky began to twitch ever so slightly.
The five fingers of his right hand were connected to a series of parchment-twisted leads that linked to the flame reel secured in a compartment on his right arm. Similarly, his left hand was linked to another set of twisted leads, which connected to a sheepskin pouch strapped to his chest.
Inside that pouch lay two lightning magic scrolls.
As Locke finally appeared, sword drawn and wary, he immediately adopted a defensive posture upon spotting Martin. The tall, armored figure was unexpected, and the sight raised his instincts to alert.
Unfortunately for Locke, his vigilance was futile.
With a quick flick of his left pinky, Martin activated the scrolls. Lightning surged through the sheepskin pouch and into his armor, creating a blinding flash that illuminated the cramped cell and the ramp outside.
Locke's face contorted with shock and fear, but his cry was swallowed by a deafening clap of thunder. In the next instant, a bolt of lightning erupted from Martin, striking Locke with catastrophic force.
The impact was as if Martin had slammed an electrified fist into Locke's chest, sending him crashing against the wall of the ramp. The sheer power of the lightning coursed through the armored man, breaking bones and creating a cacophony of sound that reverberated in the claustrophobic space.
Dust rained down from the ceiling as Locke's body crumpled to the ground, smoke rising from his charred armor. The man was rendered unconscious, possibly dead.
Martin felt the numbing shock of the current even through the layers of his own armor. He gasped for breath, shaking off the residual effects of the spell as he surveyed the scene before him. Locke lay sprawled on the ground, the acrid smell of burnt metal and flesh filling the air.
Shaking off the disorientation, Martin staggered out of the cell and peered down the ramp, which stretched long and foreboding before him, lit by flickering magical lights along the walls.
At the center of the ramp, Busca stood, his expression frozen in horror at the sight he had just witnessed—the destruction of his comrade. The shock rendered him nearly immobile.
But survival instincts kicked in, and Busca turned to flee toward the exit.
Martin, clad in heavy armor, knew he couldn't catch him in a sprint. Instead, he raised his left arm, aiming a strange bottle-like device at Busca. Still gripping the red sword in his right hand, he leaned against the wall for balance and pulled a thin line connected to the bottle.
As he yanked the line, it triggered a magic scroll inside the bottle.
The ensuing gust of wind erupted violently, causing the porcelain bottle to shatter in a loud explosion. The force released a projectile that shot forth like a cannonball, propelled by the whirlwind spell.
Martin had created a makeshift cannon.
The projectile hurtled through the air, aimed directly at Busca, who was sprinting for his life.
"Not today," Martin muttered under his breath, determined that the chaos wouldn't end with Locke alone.