The thirty minutes passed in silence. Nero sat cross-legged on the scorched earth, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and deep. Each breath drew prana from the air around him, pulling it into his core, cycling it through his body. His wounds had healed—the Earth law working through his flesh, knitting bone, sealing flesh, leaving only faint pink lines that would fade by morning. His stamina returned, slowly, steadily, filling muscles that had been empty.
He reviewed the fight. The white lightning had been good, but costly. He had used too much, too fast. Against the orcs, it had worked. Against stronger enemies, it would leave him empty. He needed to be smarter. More efficient. He thought of the golden lightning, the familiar crackle and roar. It was powerful, but it announced itself. It gave warning.
There was a balance to be found. He would find it.
The notification appeared, soft blue against the gray sky.
Third wave approaching.
