Lyrate chased after another man through the trees. He didn't turn to fight like the others. Maybe he was smart enough to know he was the weakest among them. But it didn't matter. His ending was the same.
She flowed behind him like a ghost, her body made of crimson mist. In seconds, the mist wrapped around him, spinning into a tight cyclone. Before he could even scream, the cyclone shifted direction and rushed away—leaving behind a clean pile of body parts. Arms, legs, and his head all stacked neatly, like someone had arranged them on purpose.
Lyrate reformed beside the pieces. Her feet touched the forest floor, but she stayed still. She didn't chase after anyone this time.
Her sword dissolved into the mist, and she brought her hands together, fingers curled in a quiet gesture—almost like a prayer. Her long red hair floated gently around her, glowing softly in the moonlight.
Then the mist around her stirred.
