The process of gradually taking control of the entire Black Angel was miraculous, like someone regaining their senses piece by piece after losing everything. First, there was sight, then sound, the possession of a punching arm, and then the leap of iron feet.
Blood continuously gushed from the wound on the chest; if the firepower of the armor's fire cannon were just a bit stronger, this strike might have directly destroyed the Black Angel. Burnt flesh and red-hot steel made its figure appear somewhat distorted and staggering, yet it struggled to stand, like a dying but crazed thug.
The gates were all sealed, and the lift platform rose to its highest. The sound of static buzzed in Night Owl's ears; he was well aware of what had happened.
Sure enough, it lost control, just like the fate of many First Generation Armor pilots. Even the Demon Hunter couldn't escape this curse.
