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BOOM!
Aaron's shadow—the one wielding [Call Thunder]—summoned lightning with the full force of its remaining mana. The bolt struck Dean and the Berserker shadow simultaneously. The shadow dissipated on impact, its form unraveling into wisps of darkness that scattered and faded.
The smoke cleared. Dean stood at its center, a satisfied smile cutting across his charred face. His clothes were scorched, the fabric stiff with soot, the leather of his boots cracked from the heat. The attack had hurt. His skin tingled where the lightning had kissed it, and a dull throb pulsed through his shoulder where the strike had landed clean.
"I really love these clothes, man." He looked down at himself, shook his head. "But what are clothes in comparison to the beat down you'll be receiving?"
