It was Michael.
He stood calmly, holding a beautiful scythe whose curved blade reflected a faint, ominous light.
But the weapon wasn't what attracted Orvath's attention. It was the sight behind Michael.
Thousands of shadowy creatures had gathered across the dark plain. Their forms varied greatly. Some were humanoid, while others resembled beasts and monsters of different shapes and sizes.
Yet all of them were composed of the same strange, shadowy substance. Their bodies were dark and indistinct, with wisps of black mist drifting from their surfaces.
More importantly, each possessed the aura of a Rank 4 supernatural.
Their ranks filled the plain, with drifting darkness obscuring the spaces between them. Yet none moved without Michael giving the order.
Orvath's expression darkened.
This bastard!
Hadn't Michael just promised not to use his undead? Yet now he was standing before an entire army!
