"Taintstorm," Azrael repeated, his eyes fixed on the vast lands soaked in blood.
Veins bulged across his body as his eyes narrowed, several seconds passed in silence. Then he stood up, taking slow, measured steps towards the edge of the colossal tree.
'Blood… is a precious resource,' he thought, the crimson armor he was still clad in—Truth Seeker—shimmered in demand to have its thirst quenched. The Cleansed armor didn't care where the blood came from, all blood was going to do the trick.
'If I enter the snow, then the armor would rank up. There is no way I am missing out on that opportunity.'
He reached the edge, ready to jump, when a firm hand stopped him by the shoulder.
"What are you doing?" Victor's voice was calm but laced with concern, contrasting the unnatural smile on his face.
"Pursuing strength. The blood will make me stronger," the Death Heir replied calmly, gaze still locked below.
