The blades straightened in the air, their movements seamless, unnervingly synchronized—like soldiers standing at attention before delivering an execution. Then, as if possessed by some unseen will, they tilted forward, their razor edges aligning with deadly precision, all pointed at Northern.
The tips of their gleaming edges shimmered with a murderous luster, catching the light in a way that sent a chill through the mountain air.
It was just steel—just cold, unfeeling metal. And yet, in that moment, it felt alive.
As if the blades themselves were savoring the sight before them—the once-unshaken warrior, now hunched over, his body writhing beneath the lingering agony that had stripped his hands of their strength.
Then they struck.
The blades plummeted, turning into blurs of sheer velocity, tearing through the wind like falling meteors.
The sound of their descent was a whisper of death—too swift, too merciless, an execution etched in steel.
