Ethan heard the Infernal Hound's shout and moved instantly. He flashed behind one of the frozen angels, seized a wing, and pulled.
It snapped with a brittle crack.
Powder burst outward in a pale spray. He had barely applied force. The wing simply disintegrated in his grasp, crumbling like dried plaster.
"Ahh… wasted!" the big black dog groaned, voice thick with heartbreak. "Only two wings left now. Should I braise them? Or steam? Maybe slow-roast…"
Even as he lamented the loss, his mind had already shifted entirely to cooking strategy. The wings clamped in his jaws were his priority. Nothing else seemed to matter.
Ethan could not help staring at the remaining angels. All four had gone rigid, their eyes that same sickly yellow-white he had seen before. He had assumed underwater that once an angel lost the ability to fight, it triggered some kind of self-destruction. But this was different. These four had not been defeated yet. They had simply… stopped.
