There was no war cry.
No grand declaration of battle.
Just movement.
One moment Ian stood still—daggers in hand, unmoving, completely unreadable.
The next, he was gone.
A blur. A whisper of shadow and ash streaking across the space between him and the Sanctum squad.
The lead priest had just begun to raise his staff, glowing with sigils of absolution, mouth halfway through a sanctified verse—
And then...his head was gone.
Blood sprayed in a perfect arc, the staff clattering uselessly to the ground.
Ian didn't pause.
He flowed into the next Sanctum zealot, a heavily armored heretic adventurer attempting to conjure a radiant shield.
Too slow.
Vowbreaker slashed once, twice, and the shield—along with the man's forearm—fell away in chunks of meat and divine metal.
"No time to breathe," Ian whispered, his voice like wind through a crypt.
The Sanctum squad erupted into action.
Spells bloomed in every direction.
Searing javelins of light rained from above.
