The Demons' innate armor was useless against weapons forged from cold iron—the sharp blade easily sliced through the Succubus's delicate flesh, plunged into her heart, then drew a horizontal line along the gap between two ribs, finally coming to rest against her spine.
Half of the Succubus's chest cavity was completely open, and fresh blood spilled from the beautiful demon's chest like boiling water overflowing its vessel. She instinctively tried to press down on the gushing wound, but that was a futile attempt. Who had launched the surprise attack? How had they gotten behind her? When had she missed such a lethal threat?
The dying Succubus tried to turn her head to see who had killed her. However, a slender hand pressed continuously on her shoulder, not strong, but more than a heart-pierced demon could resist.
Who... is... it…
The Succubus felt her thoughts slowing down, and death—like a thick, cold tentacle—wrapped tightly around her.
