The descending shadow of the mutated beast darkened the narrow pass as nine feet of bone spurs, crimson scales, and jagged claws plummeted toward the fractured volcanic rock.
Caleb Conway did not leap aside to let the momentum crush the stone trail, nor did he retreat another step toward the wagons. His right hand rose from the seam of his linen tunic, fingers curling as the vast, swirling reservoir of liquid gold in his lower dantian surged into violent, pressurized circulation. The newly consolidated energy of the Origin Returning Realm did not vent as loose vapor; it bled through his pores in dense, heavy ribbons of pure liquid light that coiled around his forearm like molten brass, solidifying within a fraction of a heartbeat.
A six-foot greatsword of solid, shimmering celestial gold
