The moment Maxwell roared those words, the battlefield erupted once more.
Golden mana burst wildly from his body, spreading outward in violent waves that tore apart the already ruined ground beneath him. The dragon-shaped shadow behind his back became larger than before, its outline no longer blurry and incomplete, but clearer now, more imposing, more alive.
The air itself trembled.
Dust rose everywhere.
The surrounding trees bent from the pressure alone.
Maxwell slowly lifted his head.
Blood still dripped from his chin.
His breathing remained rough.
His body still looked heavily injured.
Yet something about him had changed.
Something dangerous.
Borzoi narrowed his eyes while steam continued rising from his red skin.
"…So you're still not done."
His voice sounded calmer again.
But inside, he no longer viewed Maxwell the same way.
Earlier, Maxwell felt like an arrogant outsider.
A talented fighter.
A dangerous mage.
But now—
