They were deflecting his bullets.
No—they were doing more than that.
They were interfering with his mana.
He fired again.
And again.
Each shot met the same bizarre resistance. Every time one of those black swords intercepted the bullet, the mana woven into it shuddered and bent, the trajectory thrown off just enough to spare the target. The bullets still detonated, still unleashed their devastating blasts, but never where Isaac intended.
His jaw tightened.
Mana roared through his body, responding to his irritation, pressing harder against its own borders.
They spread out, rushing him from multiple angles now that they had closed the distance.
Fine.
If precise shots wouldn't do, he would erase the ground they stood on.
He planted his feet.
This time, he poured mana into the rifle without restraint. The weapon's silver veins flared, bright enough to cast harsh, cold light on the masked faces rushing toward him. The air grew heavy, thick with the density of gathered power.
