The atmosphere in the basin shifted from the heat of battle to a cold, clinical dread.
The Leader of the Black Gale, pinned against the jagged cliffside by Zephyrion's wind, wasn't struggling. His obsidian skin was cracking, and black ichor leaked from his mouth, but he was grinning—a wide, horrific display of needle-teeth.
"Go ahead, Tempest," the demon rasped, his voice echoing with a hollow, echoing quality. "Crush this shell. It matters not. Our part in this theater is… completed."
I gasped, my hands clawing at the earth as the black rot in my chest thrashed like a trapped animal. The "Limitless" light of my core was a dull, flickering gold, struggling to hold back the tide. "What… what do you mean… completed?"
The demon's eyes flared with a final, dying light. "We were never meant to kill you, Vessel. We were the distraction. We were the leash that kept you and the Fire-born grounded here while the real hunt began."
He let out a wet, rattling laugh.
