The valley fell silent for a heartbeat.
Smoke from the rifles coiled upward like dark ribbons. The Dutchman’s soldiers panted heavily, their uniforms drenched with sweat despite the cool Shamballa air. They had fired everything they had, again and again, but not a single bullet had found its mark.
Arthur stood alone at the center of the field, robes whispering softly in the wind, his staff upright like the spine of the earth itself. His chest rose and fell slowly. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
The mercenaries stared at him — wide-eyed, unnerved. They were used to men bleeding, running, begging. Not this. Not someone who moved like wind and light.
“RELOAD!” the Dutchman’s voice tore through the air.
The men jolted, hurriedly jamming new rounds into their rifles, fumbling in panic. A f
