Elomot's shock was palpable.
"H-how?"
Too many impossible things were happening at once.
First, Atticus shouldn't even be here. The Executioners should have taken care of him already. If he was here… then did that mean he had defeated them?
'Impossible!'
Elomot refused to believe it. Yet even that wasn't the most impossible thing before him.
Since the birth of the First Crown, never had there been a man capable of wielding Primal Will without eventually losing themselves to it.
Every soul consumed by Primal Will became nothing more than a mindless puppet consumed by rage and destruction before eventually degenerating into a Reverent.
Yet intelligence remained within Atticus' widened gaze.
Coldness.
Sentience.
There was no doubt about it.
He was wielding Primal Will… and somehow retaining himself.
While Elomot felt like his entire world was collapsing, the eyes of Anorah and the others lit up instantly.
Atticus had arrived.
