Page 334 of Scarlet Wars
Men were such simple creatures, they always thought everything had to bebig.
Just like their dicks, they thought bubbles were only about size, orscale.
But I wasn’t thinking big.
I was thinkingprecise.
I shifted my stance, gold and red haze intertwining around me in perfect, living harmony. I extended one hand—steady, open—and pointed straight at the High Chief.
One thought only: containment.
The air shimmered around him, no surge, no warning. Only a soft, sickening twist of energy. And then, in an instant, he was encased.
A perfectly circular bubble snapped shut around him, small, flawless, inescapable.
No ripple of warning. Only vast control.
His eyes flew wide. Hands slammed into the inner wall of the dome.
“Impossible!” he choked, sounding muffled behind the golden-red shimmer. “You… No magi can do this!”
I didn’t answer. I simply raised my other hand.
And then I did itagain.
Andagain.
Andagain.
Hundreds of threads surged outward from me like living lightning, latching onto every single hostile Offensive in the square. One by one, tiny bubbles bloomed across the battlefield, hundreds of perfect, flickering prisons, each containing a soldier who had once followed the Chiefs without question.
They shouted.
They thrashed.
Some tried to translate and died on the spot, others flung blades or fists against the invisible walls of their new cages.
But they weren’t going anywhere.
The battlefield slowed, as if the world itself exhaled all at once.
The shouting dulled into a low, broken murmur.
The clash of weapons and the crackle of magic died away.
Even the air, heavy with the stench of burning haze and blood, seemed to grow thicker, denser, pressing down on every chest.
And slowly, inevitably, the battle came to a halt.
The Cyclos Offensives, who only moments ago had fought and bled across these stones, were no longer charging. They moved now with cold precision, rallying together as one unit, their expressions grim as they killed the remaining United Chiefs.
There was no mercy in them. No hesitation.
They surged into the broken ranks of the Chiefs’ loyalists, shackling them with translation-proof cuffs, binding their hands with cords of magic that glowed harsh against their skin. It was swift. Efficient. Brutal in its simplicity.
The United Chiefs' armies were finished.
And standing at the center of it all, locked inside the small, perfect prison I had woven with my own hands, was the High Chief.
