The Obsidian Crow shrieked—a sound that tore through the air like rending metal—and launched itself forward.
Fifty feet of wingspan. Talons extended, each one designed to pierce and rend. The beak opened wide, revealing a throat that burned with accumulated death energy—centuries of it, probably. Maybe more.
Fast.
Incredibly fast.
The kind of speed that came from a Paragon channeling everything into pure, desperate offense.
Northern didn't move.
He stood there, shadow blades still in hand, watching the massive predator descend on him like a falling meteor. The wind from those wings alone could probably snap bones. The talons could definitely punch through steel.
'Interesting choice. Abandoning technique for raw power.'
The thought drifted through his mind with clinical detachment.
'Unfortunate choice, more accurately.'
After all, power without precision was just flailing. And flailing never worked against someone who knew what they were doing.
The talons reached him.
