Luther's gaze narrowed, fangs peeking slightly between his lips. "A living weapon…" he muttered under his breath.
The figure didn't answer. Instead, with one fluid motion, he tilted the hilt and the weapon began to move.
The blade stretched, links forming in seamless segments until it was no longer a sword but a serpent of steel, coiling and thrashing in his grip.
The sound it made was like a predator's hiss.
Then came the strike.
The whip lashed out in a blur—an arc of gleaming light snapping through the air toward Luther's chest. It sliced through pillars and armor stands like paper, cutting through stone without losing speed.
But when it reached him, Luther was gone.
A gust of displaced air followed, and he reappeared a few meters away, dust curling around his boots. A single lock of his white hair drifted to the ground, cleanly sliced in half.
He looked down at it, then up at the intruder. His lips curled into something between amusement and annoyance.
