The first to die never even screamed.
A bone spike tore clean through his chest, splitting ribs and armor alike, lifting him into the air like a macabre banner before the limb retracted and flung the corpse into the mud.
Blood rained. Metal clattered. Then the real battle began.
Havoc moved first.
The ground shattered beneath his weight as he lunged, talons cleaving through the first line like parchment.
One man—wrapped in aethersteel, bearing the crest of the Crimson Shroud—raised a halberd crackling with lightning.
A precise strike. A warrior's form.
Havoc ducked beneath it.
Then he ripped upward.
The halberd fell harmlessly to the ground, its wielder gone—vanished into a spray of red mist and tattered limbs.
A spine dangled from Havoc's mouth, wet and glistening, before it was spat out like gristle.
And then all hell followed.
