Its helmet was now cracked—deep lines split through the dark steel like veins. Through those jagged breaks, pale skin peeked through, a sickly color that resembled a ghoul's corpse. Hollow-cheeked. Emaciated. The figure looked malnourished, just like the ghosts Corven had faced earlier.
But its eyes weren't dead.
They burned with a furious will and iron resolve, unlike anything those aimless spirits had shown.
"You're tougher than you look," Corven muttered, his tone halfway between admiration and disbelief.
But the dark knight countered immediately. "The same can be said of you."
SLASH.
In the blink of an eye, it surged forward—no wasted movement.
CLANG.
A tendril met the greatsword's edge, intercepting the blow and redirecting it just enough.
CLANG.
Then another tendril reinforced the first, stopping the follow-up strike.
Corven didn't remain idle while his tendrils acted. He moved with them—fluidly, instinctively.
[Sanguine Manipulation]
