As Artorias' blade snapped between the Spirit King's fingers, the world held its breath as everything slowed down. As if time had been slowed down by something.
And then, he was gone.
There was no shifting. No distortion in the air. No sign of energy.
He simply ceased to be. And then he began to be.
Between Monica and Beatrice.
They didn't even see him arrive — they only realized that the world had grown colder, quieter. And when their eyes searched for the reason… he was already there.
And then all hell broke loose.
Without a word, the king's left arm advanced like a living blade, his fingers sinking into Beatrice's shoulder with the ease of someone cutting through wet paper.
They cut through muscle, bone, and soul. As if her body were made of still-wet clay.
She didn't even scream. Not right away.
Because the scream came with the pull.
A crack that sounded like dry wood being torn apart by a fire echoed. And then
Her arm was ripped off. Whole.
