Rhett didn't stop. He pressed harder until more cracks webbed across the creature's skull.
The creature thrashed violently, but it was futile.
"Your kind are the only filth in this world," Rhett said at last, voice ice cold. Without waiting for a response, he stomped down.
His boot shattered its skull, splattering brain matter as black ichor pooled beneath the corpse.
But Rhett's gaze remained cold. Grade threes were called difficult for a reason, beheading them wasn't enough.
One had to destroy their cores and wash away the ichor with vita, or risk them regenerating. He had crushed its skull because he wanted the creature to feel pain.
Blood streamed from Rhett's wound, pooling beneath the corpse before bursting out in a forest of crimson spikes, like a porcupine of spears piercing the air.
As the core was forced out, Rhett snatched it, flooding it with vita until the darkness was erased. A violent surge of vita rushed from the creature into him. It was dead.
