The first spell that I reached for was Lightning Edict. It was one of the most versatile and mysterious spells that I had, fused from multiple skills and spells, both celestial and mundane; I knew that I had hardly even touched the limit of this spell.
However, now that I called upon it, I was no longer using it to make clothes or hide the glow of my threads. I extended the verdict around me for miles to find the most suitable receptacle for this power, and I found it. The field of skulls.
They were born from my storm, and that meant that they all carried lightning essence inside them; even if they were of Death, a part of me would always remain inside them. It was my privilege as her consort and a Death Titan.
What I fabricated was something both ancient and new, the knowledge entering into my soul even as I did it... Grave Soil.
I reached into the ground I now owned and made it rise; the field of skulls had spread for thousands of miles, and their roots had grown deep. What was present above the surface was a small part of their true size, because death seeks life, and beneath the ground there was still so much life, and so the roots of the field went deep and kept drinking the vitality of this world.
The field of skulls had always been silent, even though they were always screaming, but as my Lightning Edict touched them, these silent screams erupted like a dirge from the abyss, and madness spread across the world.
I could feel the Arcanists becoming destabilised as the assault faltered, but the real damage happened to the massive war machines and in the towers. Apparently, while the Arcanists could fight me outside of them, inside the fortresses and towers were Adepts and other weaker mages responsible for ensuring that these massive machines of war could operate with smooth efficiency.
The screams from the field of skulls must have been scouring through their souls and tearing at their sanity. It would not be wrong to estimate that the combat capabilities of these machines had almost been cut in half.
But this was not all; I had created a lot of Grave Soil by transforming a small part of the roots from the field, and I commanded them to rise, causing vast black mountains to erupt from the ground and slam into the towers.
The impact from this single spell could be felt for miles, and this was just the beginning; after all, I had many spells.
My left hand, which was still whole, punched out from the ground, and I could imagine that it resembled a massive tree trunk, pale as bone but filled with the glow of red lightning that ran through my channels like lava, while millions of souls revolved around my arm like countless moons worshipping the sun.
I felt more chains being attached to more souls and dragging them into my storm, and these souls were mostly Adepts and Acolytes. It would seem that the sight of my arm was the last straw to break the minds and souls of those who were suffering under the cries of the skull fields.
My arm waved in the air as if I was calling for the storm, and the Loom of Lightning answered.
The threads, if you could call them threads, as each of them was as thick as a python, emerged from my fingers, and they were black, shot through with veins of red, and they hissed like snakes; each thread seemed to be alive, which in a manner they were, as they sought for every light of life they could find.
They spread through the air like the roots of a dead tree, and found the war machines, the towers, the floating fortresses, and they wrapped around them to bind.
The Arcanists tried to cut the threads, but it was much harder than they anticipated. My spells were not just being powered by my ridiculous soul that was growing stronger as my size was increasing; these threads were woven from Death itself.
Remember that Mortal Shell wove my soul and body together, and so the stronger my body, the stronger my soul. If I was an Adept, then this advantage would not be as crushing, but as an Arcanist with a crystallized soul, trying to unravel my spell was no longer easy.
My fist clenched, and my threads began to pull, creating a loud groaning sound from the towers as their structural capabilities were taken to the limit.
The massive fortresses tilted, as the war machines, caught in the web of black threads, began to tear themselves apart as they tried to move against the binding.
The Arcanists above me were now panicking, their formations dissolving as they tried to free their machines. My spells could reach for miles, and their grade and complexity were beyond what could be easily analysed, although I knew if I gave them a bit of time they would be able to tear my threads apart... why should I give them time? I was no longer playing the game of show me your spells.
I called Heaven’s Verdict, and I wondered why a small part of me had believed that a golden spear of lightning would appear in my hand, but that should be the familiar pattern of the spell that was engraved in my consciousness firing away, because what emerged from my palm was black, edged with red. It hummed with the weight of a million souls.
I kept pouring more power into this spell, and it grew until it pierced the red storm cloud above, and this caused the storm to release its lightning into the spear, causing it to become almost solid.
I held so much power in my hand that even my skin began to char, meaning that this spell had faintly exceeded my Endurance and Resonance. The growing souls in my storm screamed as I threw the spear upward, and it pierced through the sky and vanished.
Panic and cries of fear and other negative emotions spiralled across the ranks of the Arcanists as they knew what was coming, and they set up defenses and all sorts of barriers in the skies, but it was useless.
The descending spell, falling like a meteor, pierced through the formations, and the Arcanists who had not been fast enough to dodge, and as it did, the spear unraveled, its power spreading through the ranks like a plague. Where it touched, bodies and structures shattered to pieces smaller than ash, as their screaming souls were dragged into the sky.