The pain of Micah's loss burned in Elio's chest like a fire that refused to extinguish, each memory of his friend fueling the flames of his rage.
The hours since his death hadn't diminished his fury; if anything, they had crystallized it into something colder.
More dangerous.
"I've waited long enough," he murmured, checking his recovered mana.
His fingers traced the familiar patterns of his book, seeking comfort in its familiar weight. It wasn't at maximum, but it would have to be sufficient. If something went wrong, he would improvise.
As always.
The oxygen stones in his pockets gave him some security.
The fundamental aspect of survival was covered, and although food could eventually become a problem, hunger was the last thing on his mind. Hatred consumed any other physical need.