Kill.
The word pulsed through Rin's corrupted consciousness like a heartbeat made of pure malevolence, echoing through every fiber of her being with relentless, consuming intensity. It wasn't a thought—it was existence itself, as fundamental as breathing and infinitely more urgent. Her dark eyes swept across the battlefield, categorizing everything she saw not as individuals or obstacles, but as targets requiring elimination.
She had to kill them all. Every last human. The compulsion was absolute.
Her smile was a work of art crafted from nightmares, devoid of any trace of humanity while maisma and dark mana crackled around her like twin hurricanes vying for supremacy. The miasma—true anathema to human magical development—coiled with hunger that transcended mortal understanding, while dark mana danced alongside it in perfect synchronization, amplifying her already overwhelming capabilities.
