As those words left Liam's mouth, the two Purebloods lunged at once, crimson afterimages streaking across the open field like bloody comets. Their weapons—blades, axes, whips, and scythes all forged of hardened blood—shimmered under the red hue of their own mystic aura. Liam, wreathed in a storm of heat and smoke, charged straight into them, his entire body cloaked in roaring flame. When they met, the earth itself seemed to recoil.
Steel and flesh collided with explosive force. Sparks of molten orange and deep crimson lit the air as every impact cracked the terrain beneath their feet. Liam's daggers, darkened by shadowfire, moved in blinding speed—one moment slicing low to intercept a spear thrust, the next whipping upward to parry a blood scythe that came for his head. The heat of his flames warped the air, distorting the demons' vision, yet they countered flawlessly, as if guided by instinct beyond sight.
