The movements were swift, sure, and precise. Lax was going toe-to-toe against an endless army of undead ranging from Ferals to Berserker, striking them down one by one. He evaded tongues, blocked claws, and counterattacked with a deadly reprisal. Not one movement was wasted as he seemed to handle the endless onslaught like a one-man army.
Jake, on the other hand, was just watching everything unfold, the smirk on his face never fading, but only the corner of his lips visible since his fingers laced together as if he were in a thinker's position. His eyes constantly shifted around, waiting for his undead to be cut down, pierced through, and chopped to pieces. If it wasn't for Lax's quick movements, the sub-space would have been filled with gray mist by now. The force behind Lax's attacks was applying an extra pressure that helped push the gray smoke into Jake's body, only to be recycled and reused.
