The serpent writhed with all its might, the dark discharge humming toward Bandolen, only to be obliterated by the movement of one of his hands. The intoxicating sensation was replaced by pain and despair.
It seemed that the more the serpent struggled, the tighter the grip of the red-arm projection became, as if its suffering and desperation were strengthening Bandolen's technique.
Calmly, Bandolen surveyed the battlefield. His eyes were cold, almost indifferent to what had transpired. The surviving individuals also fell under his scrutinizing gaze. In that fleeting moment, their instincts screamed that death awaited them—not from the serpent, but from the bearer of that piercing stare.
Only when Bandolen's eyes ceased their scrutiny did the survivors' bodies relax. A palpable relief washed over them, as if the sensation of narrowly escaping certain death had never existed before.
