The wind howled through the silence that followed the soldier's words. Neither Raizel nor Bairan responded - though Bairan wasn't in a position to answer anyway.
A dozen heartbeats passed as Burning Storm surveyed their surroundings before finally lowering his gaze.
"And if I insist?"
The soldier's grin stretched unnaturally wide, his eyes mirroring the madness of his smile.
"I'll feast on your flesh," he hissed. "Rip you apart tendon by tendon and feed your scraps to the sewer rats."
A slow smile spread across Paragon Raizel's face, his jade-green eyes glowing with hidden depths - like calm waters masking sothing monstrous beneath.
His crimson spikes swayed gently as he tilted his head. With a subtle curl of his lip, he stepped forward - casually, effortlessly - brushing past the frozen soldier.
The man's eyes bulged, his grin splitting wider until it threatened to tear his face apart. His entire body trembled with unspent violence.
Bairan shot him a look of pure disdain as he moved to follow.
Then - impossibly - the soldier pivoted with unnatural speed, his hand shooting out to grab Bairan's flowing garnts.
Burning Storm's eyes widened. This shouldn't be possible. Unless... unless...
His racing thoughts shattered as he turned.
The soldier had just made the last mistake of his life.
No one saw the blade move. One mont the soldier's hand clutched fabric - the next, his severed forearm spun through the air, blood arcing in thick ropes from the stump.
A guttural scream tore from the man's throat as he stumbled back, clutching his spurting wound.
Bairan calmly used the loose outer layer of his outfit - always draping over his shoulders - to shield himself from the crimson spray. His other hand rested lightly on his sword hilt, as if he'd never moved at all.
Burning Storm's face twisted into an amused grin.
"Wow."
Bairan examined his ruined garnt with visible irritation. In severing the offending hand, he'd only made the damage worse.
His frown deepened as he muttered.
"I should've vaporized him instead."
The Paragon stepped closer, his smile sharp with manic curiosity.
"How did you even do that?"
Bairan barely glanced up, still preoccupied with his stained clothing.
Nearby, soldiers had rushed to aid their wounded comrade, only to be violently rebuffed. The maid man tore a strip from his uniform, hastily binding the bleeding stump before fixing Bairan with a glare hot enough to lt steel.
Raizel leaned in, his voice low:
"Careful. He might be a Paragon. A new one - that's the only way he broke my essence hold."
Paragons weren't rely strong-willed - their will fused with their very essence, allowing them to impose their soul's form upon reality. This manifested in three stages. What Raizel had used here - and in Lithia - was rely the first: subtle environntal interaction.
While sufficient to immobilize lesser warriors, another Paragon could break free. And this strange soldier had done exactly that.
Bairan shrugged, indifferent.
"I'll repaint the floor with his face."
The Sword King advanced slowly as Burning Storm shot him one last grinning glance before turning away.
The maid soldier suddenly brandished his bat with his remaining hand, bellowing:
"You'll regret this!"
Then he lunged - not toward Bairan, but toward his own troops.
The Sword King's eyebrow arched.
"Madness?"
Perhaps that explained it.
Bairan remained still, observing with detached curiosity as the soldier swung his bat into a comrade's stomach, dropping the man to his knees. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the fallen soldier's wrist, eyed it clinically, then - with a flash of steel - severed the hand.
He attached the bloody stump to his own arm with visible distaste. Instantly, his veins pulsed black as they consud the graft, reshaping the foreign flesh into a perfect match.
When he turned back, his smile had returned - wider now, unhinged.
Bairan watched, face impassive. His fingers curled lightly around his sword hilt, the subtle tilt of steel betraying his building irritation.
Blue fire kindled in his eyes as his lips twisted downward.
"Filth."
The word dripped with glacial contempt.
The man threw back his head in a madman's cackle.
"Say it again, rat!" he shrieked, spittle flying.
In one explosive motion, he launched himself through the air - covering impossible distance - and ca crashing down toward Bairan, bat raised high.
The Sword King barely flicked his wrist. His sword's flat side t the blow with a dull clang, his expression utterly bored. A subtle pivot, and the attacker went sprawling.
Before the man could blink, Bairan's foot connected like a lightning strike. The kick sent him hurtling backward with bone-shattering force, smashing through the estate's concrete wall in an explosion of dust and debris.
Bairan didn't even blink. With deliberate slowness, he began sliding Dark Mortal back into its sheath.
Then - impossibly - the figure erged from the wreckage. No broken bones. No visible damage. Just that sa deranged grin, though now sared with dust.
That kick would have reduced a normal man to paste. But an Evanscent's body was different.
Unnaturally durable.
The soldier ca screaming toward Bairan, bat raised high, his laughter peeling through the air like shattered glass. His charge gained terrifying montum - until his eyes bulged in shock.
The white-haired swordsman stood directly in his path. One pale finger pressed against the madman's forehead.
The soldier's legs pistoned uselessly against the ground. The world itself seed to reject his movent, all resistance funneling through that single fingertip holding him at bay.
When he swung his bat in desperate fury, Bairan rely cocked his hand back and delivered a slap that cracked like thunder.
The impact sent the man spinning through the air, his body whipping like a ragdoll before crashing through another section of wall. Bairan examined his palm with visceral disgust. Filthy. Revolting. He hated touching vermin.
Rubble shifted. The soldier erged - face swollen, uniform caked in dust. Gone was the manic grin. In its place, an angry red welt blood across his cheek, distorting his features with every throbbing pulse.
Pure, unadulterated rage twisted what remained of his face.
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