I raised my twin daggers—curved, black, and laced with Deepdark—and cut through the first knight like I was slicing through wet foil. The corruption that had once been steel parted with a whisper, and its armor clattered apart in halves, collapsing into data ash that fizzled and sparked against the cold ground beneath my boots. The Deepdark hummed through my veins, satisfied with its work of severing the bonds that held corrupted matter together.
The next knight raised its rusted greatsword, the blade weeping black ichor that steamed where it hit the ground. I could taste the wrongness in the air—corruption magic, twisted and sick. I ducked low, slashed once across the hamstring, once across the neck, and it dropped too, without drama. The familiar weight of my daggers felt reassuring as I exhaled, standing amid the ruin of twisted plate and bone.
Then I looked left. And I pursed my lips.
