Even for someone as powerful as Archimonde, such a spell was not something he could cast easily.
It might have looked like he had casually grabbed a handful of sand, but behind it lay his immense power and profound mastery of magic.
Even the same spell could not be cast twice in succession.
As the chant concluded, the devastating blow descended upon Dalaran with a gesture of his hand. Whether they were the demons under his command or Archimonde himself, they all awaited the city before them turning into ruins.
"Under Lord Archimonde's mighty power, Dalaran will be plunged into a sea of fire."
"Those insects who dare stand before the Burning Legion face only destruction!"
At his side, subordinates and lieutenants such as Tichondrius spoke in praise, seemingly already certain of the outcome.
This city that humanity took pride in, the city of mages that alone possessed the means to contend with the Burning Legion, would fall beneath the iron hooves of the Scourge just like the countless planets and races the Legion had conquered in the past.
They looked ahead expectantly, waiting for it all to happen.
Waiting for destruction to descend.
Waiting for...
Yet a minute had passed, and Dalaran's towers remained completely unscathed.
The situation became extremely awkward.
Other than loneliness, they had waited for nothing.
They could clearly see spatial distortions shaped like Archimonde's palm appearing where the city stood.
Yet that enormous invisible hand seemed to have struck empty air.
At this moment, Dalaran, the target, was like an illusion—a mirage in the desert. It looked real, but it possessed no physical form.
"Impossible! That city is clearly right there!" Tichondrius trembled as he vehemently denied the possibility. "Otherwise, what have the undead been fighting against these past few dozen days?
"Lord Archimonde, I