Illusions surged forward like a living tide, countless fragmented constructs forming out of the meltdown's raw energy—soldiers, beasts, shifting weapons, all bound to his will. They weren't just ephemeral. They weren't just magic. The meltdown had given them weight, substance. They moved with the conviction of something that believed itself real.
I lunged forward, cutting down the first wave before they could fully solidify. My sword clashed against their distorted forms, the impact sending shockwaves up my arms. Sparks of violet-green energy licked at my blade, trying to coil around it, trying to rewrite it. I forced my will into the steel, shattering their grasp before it could take hold.
Asterion fought at my flank, his movements sharp and efficient, but even he couldn't intercept them all. One construct slipped past us, a blade of pure meltdown energy aimed for my ribs.
I caught the attack with my free hand.
