The betting didn't last long.
The moment the mercenary moved, he became a whirlwind of slaughter—an angel of death among predators. His blades cut arcs of silver through the air while his wings fanned out behind him, scattering gusts of wind strong enough to rattle the hanging lamps above.
With every strike, the corruption in his eye deepened. The once faint glow of violet now blazed like a brand, veins of unnatural light crawling outward across his face. His power surged, raw and unstable, pushing him toward a dangerous peak.
SLASH!
In less than a blink, he was at the far end of the hall, his sword cleaving clean through the neck of a vampire before the creature even registered the threat. The sound of the cut was wrong—wet, distorted, almost like tearing through a different kind of fabric altogether.
