The pitch-black barrier vanished, allowing the inhuman entity to erupt forth as its body warped with every step it took; its grinning head enlarging and shrinking, the limbs that swung by its sides growing and retreating back to their normal size as they moved.
It was within but a few steps of Sirius; the death deity's limbs contorted, transforming into a mass of blades–greatswords, scythes, claymores and all–salivating abyssal drool from its mouth as it lunged towards the man.
"A hand, old man?" Sirius asked with a confident smile, not moving from the spot he stood while continuing his build-up of rising energy.
Just before the swarm of blades could dice apart the arrogant Invictus, lines of burning plasma whipped around, binding the body of the deity. Landing in front of Sirius, Beowulf's boots crushed the tiles beneath him.
