The scythe curved through the air in a wide, deliberate arc—graceful, almost elegant, if not for the brutal intent behind it. Its descent was silent but not without malice, a sweeping slash of blackened steel made to reap, to end, to punish. And it found its mark.
With a sickening crunch, the blade landed on the exposed back of the Reaver—the same one that had so greedily swallowed the Wrath Core Fragment moments earlier. The impact wasn't clean; it was jagged, savage. The edge didn't slice through as much as it punched inward, cleaving through hardened skin with resistance, grinding through sinew and vertebrae like a saw against soaked wood. The Reaver shrieked, a high, gurgling squeal that tore through the mist-heavy air—a pig's death wail in a slaughterhouse where mercy was not on the menu.
