"Damn, they're all insane," Fleur muttered, her eyes fixed on the sky where Ulrich and the Crow clashed midair.
Their movements blurred, smoke and flame colliding like two storms vying for dominance. The Draemir patriarch's smoke hands tore through the Crow's clones, ripping them apart as effortlessly as crushing moths.
Each strike thundered through the air, shaking the twisted vines below.
"Now I understand why the Corvane chose to create monsters instead of increasing their own combat skills," she said, shaking her head.
"Training takes centuries. Creating shortcuts just takes madness."
Her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. Compared to the Crow's overwhelming power, her own strength—polished through decades of blood and combat—felt painfully mortal, didn't mean she was weaker than that child, it just felt like her training was useless.
