Death's Scythe vibrated violently. Eventually, it broke free of Dyon's hands, raising up into the skies and shaking with all its might.
Suddenly, its black fog began to form a vague image. It wasn't a person or a beast. Rather, it was simply a single pupil with irises as red and blood and whites as black as night.
A ghastly scream reverberated across the battlefield.
Swaths of enemies who met this gaze fell one after another, their souls ripped from their bodies and sacrificed to Reaper.
'Those fundamental runes are too weak for you.' Dyon thought fiercely. 'I'll snatch stronger ones for you. When those aren't strong enough, I'll snatch even more. If even those aren't enough, I'll create ones that surpass everything, that sit atop of everything!'
