"No!" A fear of death seized him. Mordain screamed, his voice breaking. He let out a shriek so sharp it nearly tore his voice apart.
He stopped caring about dignity, about status, about being a legendary figure of the demonic path, and unleashed everything he had.
The Bone Sceptre in his hand exploded, forming a ghastly white shield made of countless screaming skulls.
Netherworld Ghostfire surged around him in layers of protection, while twisted black, gray chains infused with curses and death itself burst from the void, lunging toward the sword strike.
All of it was meaningless. That chaotic sword energy was like divine judgment, inevitable, absolute.
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