CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY FIVE

The cellar, once a dank and shadowed space, had become a crucible of raw magic and chilling fear. The air hung heavy with the lingering scent of burnt flesh and ozone, a silent testament to the fiery ball unleashed by Scarface, lieutenant of the Dragon Group. Everyone present, with the exception of Xander, had braced for a gruesome spectacle. They envisioned a scene of charred flesh and bone, the young man reduced to nothing more than a smouldering husk. Instead, they were met with a stillness that felt almost unnatural, a quiet defiance that spoke volumes.

Xander stood amidst the wreckage, his clothes unmarred, his face serene. A soft smile played on his lips, a smile that held a hint of victory, of an inner knowledge that was unsettling in its calmness. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the ragged gasps of those who had witnessed this impossible display of immunity. Even Scarface, his face still contorted with a mixture of disbelief and rage, faltered, his eyes fixed on the