The ground became slick with blood, but Asher's pace never broke. He cut one zealot down, turned, and cut another. His scythe moved with clean precision, never wasted, never rushed. Every swing was final.
The zealots kept coming. They screamed as they rushed him, voices cracking with the Herald's words. Their bodies moved like puppets, jerking in strange angles, but their blades still sought his flesh. One struck from behind; Asher stepped aside without looking, his scythe flashing back to split the mask and the head beneath. Another tried to grab his arm; he twisted, pulled the zealot forward, and crushed his throat with a simple strike of the haft.
They piled forward without end, but he waded through them as if walking a steady path. Their hooks tore at his cloak, their knives scraped sparks against his weapon, but none slowed him.
