Black swords materialized in the air, flying at a terrifying speed—they weren't just a blur of darkness, but something too swift to even be called a blur.
Bairan remained casual, a smooth smile playing on his lips as he nonchalantly swatted the blades away with his bare hands.
The simple motion of his hands, the flick of his wrist, carried such astonishing force that each black blade shattered upon contact.
The Black Prophet spread his arms wide, conjuring hundreds of thousands of black swords. The air trembled and death's cold grip held the world in pause for a moment.
Thunder rumbled in the distance—not from their battle, but the nature of it seemed to add to the foreboding clash between Bairan and the Prophet.
Bairan lifted his gaze to the endless array of black swords hovering above, a sweet smile dancing across his face.
The prospect of so many swords raining down upon him felt soothing, the challenge of blocking each one making his heart race with excitement.
