They surged.
Gnashing.
Shrilling.
Grotesque bodies of jagged muscle, twisted limbs, sinew wrapped in corrupted blackened hides, monstrosities, dozens of them, descending in a wave that fractured floating ruins underfoot.
Anthony stood at the epicenter of oblivion, a lone silhouette beneath the violent ballet of shattered buildings drifting overhead.
The smile came first, serene, sharp, touched by a thrill that only he could savor.
Then, with a lazy flick of the wrist, he summoned them.
Twin echoes shimmered into his grasp, guns, forged not of iron or steel, but woven with mana-inlaid obsidian, ethereal lines of cerulean and crimson pulsing along their frames.
Sleek, deadly, elegant.
Constructs purchased from his OP system moments before, inspired by the curious spark of conversation with Kingsley.
He turned the guns in his palms, testing their weight.
And the massacre began.
