The dagger sank into the back of the Vicar's neck. It should have been a killing blow. A severance of the spinal cord, a disruption of the mana flow to the brain.
"SQUELCH."
But there was no blood. There was only the sound of tearing wet paper.
Alvian narrowed his eyes. The sensation transmitted through the hilt of [Voidpiercer] was wrong. He hadn't hit flesh and bone. He had hit something fluid. Something dead.
The Vicar's head rotated 180 degrees. Not quickly, like a snap, but slowly, grindingly, like an owl. The skin of his neck twisted and tore, revealing grey, dead muscle beneath the illusion of healthy skin. The kindly grandfatherly face was gone. In its place was a rictus grin of rotting teeth and black gums.
"Rude," the Vicar hissed.
His body exploded.
"BOOM!"
