The battlefield had transformed into a canvas of blinding brilliance. Where shadows had once clawed at the edges of the Stark militia's formation, there was now only pure, unadulterated radiance. Klaus stood at the center of the devastation, his white hair floating weightlessly in the updraft created by his own power. He did not look like a swordsman anymore. He looked like a conduit for something far greater, a vessel overflowing with power that refused to be contained.
The air smelled of ozone and purified ash. Every time Klaus swung Greed, the black sword trailed ribbons of golden light that severed the Hollows not just physically but spiritually. The creatures did not just fall. They unraveled. Their dark forms dissipated into harmless motes of dust, cleansed by the attribute that was their natural antithesis.
