He weaved between the surviving Strigoi with deadly precision, his sword flashing as it cleaved through their ranks.
Each movement was a blur, a savage yet graceful dance of death that left bodies in his wake. His strikes were merciless, cutting through flesh, bone, and sinew as if they were nothing.
Every swing of his blade seemed to sing with bloodlust, and the ferocity in his eyes made him appear more monstrous than the creatures he was slaughtering.
Shadows clung to him like a cloak, his presence an embodiment of death itself, relentless and terrifying.
The air grew thick with the stench of blood and charred flesh, the sound of his sword cutting through the Strigoi drowned out by their pained howls.
Their fear was palpable as they realized they were facing something far worse than themselves.
The few that remained began to shrink back, dread etched on their monstrous faces. Alicarde's bloodied figure, drenched in darkness and gore, only heightened their terror.
