As the question echoed through his mind, the threads within his body surged forth with unrestrained vigor. The severed arm lying on the ground twitched, then moved in an instant, black threads bursting from its surface, latching onto the strands that still hovered at the stump where it had once belonged.
In a seamless motion, the arm reattached. The gash that marred his face disappeared as his skin regenerated, the obsidian threads weaving themselves into the wound and sealing it shut with flawless precision.
'He's using the morning sun's rays as anchors for movement.'
The realization struck Orvak like lightning. Without hesitation, his scythe swung toward the single ray of sunlight touching his body. Just as he moved, the crescent edge of his blade clashed against an oncoming katana, steel meeting steel in a flash of power and precision.
