The training ground shook as ten black silhouettes stepped forward. Each one was a demon—muscular frames wrapped in twisted armor of bone, their eyes burning with nothing but pitch-black mana. They growled in unison, surrounding the lone figure standing at the center.
Vorthas Vel Azriel tightened his grip, though no sword rested in his hand. His weapon was magic itself.
The first demon lunged with a mace dripping in black flames. Vorthas vanished with a blink, reappearing behind it. His palm lit with condensed mana, and with a strike to the demon's back, the creature was blasted forward, crashing into its allies.
"Too slow," he muttered.
Another demon roared, slamming its hands onto the ground. Jagged spikes of black earth shot up, aiming to skewer him. Vorthas flicked his wrist—his own mana snapped like a whip, and the spikes crumbled into dust before touching him. Without pause, he slid forward, his movements sharp like a swordsman's footwork.
