While the crowd argued over numbers for his total stat, Adyr kept pressing. His slashes came without pause, each one landing hard enough to drive Kharom back another step.
With no chance to reset his stance, Kharom's footing frayed; balance slipped; his boots began to slide across the marble.
Kharom was not idle either. He had already triggered one of his attack-type Spark skills. The hands that had darkened from his defensive skill deepened another shade, a rot-like hue that crawled from skin to steel.
Each time Adyr's blades struck, the corruption licked across the contact, and the metal caught it. A dry black bloom crept over the swords, and thin cracks webbed along their surfaces.
With every impact, the blackened sheen thickened. The edges looked tired. The first hairline fractures widened into lines the eye could follow.
These swords are not enough for me anymore, are they? Adyr frowned, watching his blades move toward failure.
