Thunderclaw didn't even know what hit him. One second he was standing tall, crackling with electric fury—and the next, something clamped around his neck like a steel vice. He couldn't breathe. His vision blurred. That massive hand had him in a death grip.
His wild, volatile lightning energy—usually enough to fry a tank—was completely useless against the man's overwhelming physical power. It fizzled out like a dying sparkler.
Crack!
The man in the black cloak gave the slightest twist of his fingers, and Thunderclaw's neck snapped like a twig. The thunder that had once roared through the apocalypse vanished in an instant. His pupils dilated, then went still.
His body hit the ground like trash being tossed aside.
The man didn't even pause. He kept walking toward the shelter, his steps steady, unstoppable—like death itself on the move.
The people watching were frozen in horror. Their eyes wide, their faces pale.
Thunderclaw… was dead.
