Malrik fought like a creature born from chaos itself.
Every swing of his blade, every movement of his blood-soaked boots, was accompanied by a roar of unrestrained laughter that sent chills crawling down the spines of his enemies. Even as his body bled from dozens of cuts, his mirth only grew louder, more manic, more intoxicating.
And his two opponents—members of the cult, both seasoned and deadly—began to falter. Their hands trembled. Their movements hesitated. How do you fight a man who welcomes pain as pleasure?
Malrik surged forward with a bloodstained grin, swinging his sword at them with savage precision. One of the cultists dropped to his knees, slamming his hands against the stone floor. Instantly, the ground beneath Malrik buckled and writhed, rising like serpents to ensnare his legs and root him in place.
