The demons shrieked, clutching their heads, staggering as the Veyrasha's cry tore through the battlefield. It was a sound not of rage, but of grief so ancient it cracked the soul. It was a lament, a divine sorrow that pierced through their twisted minds, dredging up memories they had long devoured and buried.
Han Xin looked up, eyes wide having recognised the soul behind it. It was Han Zhan. Han Xin appreciated his help but he was worried that he would get into trouble.
Han Xin wiped the blood from the corner of his eye, the gesture slow, deliberate. His grip on the axe tightened, veins in his forearms pulsing like lightning. The exhaustion still clung to him, but now he had back up.
The frost demon swung its jagged blade, shards of ice spiraling like razors. Han Xin ducked low, driving the axe into its knee. The demon howled, collapsing in a heap of shattered frost.
