"It's too bad I do not know how to snuff out your soul right here and now!" Damon clicked his tongue.
His gaze then landed on the many forced C ranks littered on the battleground, and a maniacal look appeared on his face. A slow, creeping grin that didn't belong to a man, but to something far more primal. Bloodlust incarnate.
"Oh well," Damon muttered. "I suppose you'll do."
A maniacal glint flashed in his eyes as his blood tendrils writhed behind him, growing longer, sharper, more alive. They snapped and cracked like whips soaked in rage, headed straight for massacre.
Those who did not have the resistance erected to his venom instantly crumbled, choking and twitching. Even though at C rank the poison could not kill them right away, they pretty much became useless rag dolls, whom the tendrils then stabbed mercilessly many times and shredded into pieces in the blink of an eye.
