Raziel couldn't take his eyes off the severed head, or the fading crimson sparks of Zion's destroyed presence.
His thirty-seven-year-old brain, a veteran mind hardened by a thousand battles, was screaming.
That wasn't just a clean decapitation.
This blond kid hadn't just killed a man.
He had forcibly severed a dark miracle from a god-like entity, had sliced the strings of the omnipotent Player and he didn't even look tired.
The blond boy crouched next to the corpse without any disgust, he wiped his fingers on the dead guy's tunic.
SWIPE.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, buddy," the boy said, standing up and dusting off his clothes.
"Or well, a fresh corpse, which is almost the same thing in this case."
Raziel stepped back. His knees shook under his tunic. His back hit a heavy wooden shelf.
"Who are you?" he croaked, h throat was dry and irritated.
"That magic. Those threads. You cut Her."
