Elius stood above the unconscious forms of the F-ranked heroes.
Smoke curled around their broken bodies.
Their armor sparked occasionally, their limbs twitching as the aftermath of Zhark's storm coursed through them.
Elius descended slowly, his boots touching the cracked road with an air of grace.
"You're just as violent as ever, Zhark," he muttered, brushing dust from his sleeve. "Unapologetic destruction. No purpose. No restraint."
He stepped closer, glancing down at the woman in the purple visor whose armor had melted slightly from the lightning.
The streetlamp above flickered once—and then his four remaining flying swords rose.
With a low hum, they spread out into a perfect diamond formation above the fallen.
Elius exhaled and lifted his hand. The swords pulsed. Not with aggression. Not with cold silver intent.
But with life.
A soft green glow emerged from their edges.
Like the color of budding leaves in spring, of untouched forests and ancient healing grounds.
