With a one-star profound spirit, Adam had merely been helping.
Supporting. Thinning numbers. Easing pressure so the heirs and acolytes could breathe.
But a three-star spirit meant only one thing.
This battle is already over.
Behind him, the martial spirit roared.
It slammed its armored fists against its chest, the sound detonating through the air like a war drum. Wind screamed in response. The cyclone answered its master, rotation tightening, speed multiplying, pressure compressing inward until the air itself began to burn.
The blades turned hot.
Not from flame, but from friction, wind compressed and accelerated to the point where it screamed white-hot through space.
Across the battlement, monsters froze.
Wood Tigers. Gargoyles. Giant Rats. Evil Pixies. Sabre Wolves. Sirens.
All of them stared.
The cyclone no longer looked like a technique.
It looked like a harbinger of death.
