Envy pulled back. The fabric of reality melted around him as he did, not as a side effect but as a weapon, his will reaching into the substance of existence itself and setting it aflame, the domain he commanded responding to his intent with absolute obedience.
The fire of it was not ordinary fire. It was the burning of reality's own material, the kind of conflagration that consumed the laws governing a space rather than the objects within it.
Dark moved through it the way a man moves through rain on a summer afternoon.
Not around it, through it, his form passing through the dissolution of reality as though reality's opinions about what should and should not be able to exist within its burning were simply not applicable to him.
He bore wounds. That much was true and worth noting.
