Trevor's lips curled into a smile that was neither mocking nor kind. It was simply… inevitable.
"You've always believed strength was about levels, about realms," Trevor said, his voice carrying like a whisper and a roar at the same time. His crimson aura coiled and slithered around him like living serpents, every strand humming with a rhythm that resonated with blood itself. "But what you fail to understand, brother… is that blood remembers. And mine is older than you can ever imagine."
Before Dennise could even register, Trevor moved.
It wasn't speed—it was erasure. One moment he was standing before him, the next he was gone, replaced by a blur of smoke and crimson. A heartbeat later, a sharp clang rang out as metal claws instinctively blocked a blood-forged scythe. Sparks scattered across the street as Trevor's weapon dragged along the metallic halberd, carving a line of raw force that detonated the air itself.
