Benjamin's body convulsed violently, every vein bulging as if something monstrous clawed within. His roar turned guttural, inhuman — and then, with a sickening rip, black tentacles burst from his flesh.
They writhed and thrashed, dripping a tar-like ichor that hissed as it touched the ground. The air itself seemed to recoil from their corruption.
Then, through the mask of shadow, Benjamin's eyes snapped open — twin voids burning with malice.
His glare locked onto Nathan.
In his right hand, darkness began to condense — spiraling, twisting, solidifying — until it took the shape of a sword, a weapon forged from pure corruption. It pulsed with foul energy, leaking tendrils of black mist that crawled across the ground like smoke from the abyss.
And then, Benjamin moved.
