The storm carried echoes of terrifying screams, as if invisible monsters were battling within the tempest, tearing at flesh, snapping bones, and ravenously devouring blood, until only one survived victorious.
But in reality, they were not dueling each other; instead, they banded together, hunting their sole enemy.
Tattered and broken armor swung back and forth in the ethereal blue mist like fishing boats tossed in angry waves, with each move sending sparks flying from the armor, new dents layering over old ones, pockmarked like a meteor.
Earlier ghoul attacks were cautious, but now, hordes of ghouls melded into the mist, their numerical advantage turning their assault into a relentless tide, with sharp, twisted claws perpetually reaching from the mist, attempting to tear at Bologue's flesh.
Bologue gripped his slaying sword, battling the elusive ghouls, and quickly realized it was a war of attrition, one that sought a swift resolution through exhaustion.
