Just as the daemon's monstrous maw surged forward, something moved fast. A flicker of light.
CLANG!
The daemon's jaws slammed shut, not on Ben, but on something else The pickaxe.
It hovered, unmoving, wedged between the fangs and Ben. Light began to pulse from within it, soft at first, then brighter. The void trembled.
CRACK.
The daemon reared back, shrieking as radiant cracks split its teeth.
Then the pickaxe changed. It twisted midair, spinning faster and faster, shedding pieces of its former self in bursts of blinding white. Then the fragments gathered assembled rebuilt.
Metal locked into place like armor forged from raw will. A plume of fire curled upward, forming a helm.
The shaft of the pickaxe extended, morphed, lengthened, until it became a massive greatsword, its edge glimmering with runes. And standing in its place was a towering figure.
