In less than ten minutes, The Reaper had defeated five hundred warriors. Killed maybe five of them—accidents where he'd misjudged the lethality of an adapted technique. Injured hundreds more. And looked barely winded.
He stood in the outer district of the Fallen Spires, surrounded by bodies of the wounded and unconscious, and sighed.
"This is exactly what I was afraid of," he said to no one in particular. "You guys are trying. I can see that. You've got good coordination, creative tactics, some interesting magic variations. But it's not enough. Nothing's ever enough."
He looked up at the central spire, where he could sense the stronger presences waiting. "So how about this—whoever's in charge, send me your best. Your commanders, your elite, your whatever-you-call-your-strongest-fighters. Let's skip the cannon fodder and get to the people who might actually make me try."
High in the central spire, Seraphine's council watched the battle through scrying crystals, their faces grim.
