"Compared to him... this blood feels insignificant."
Frey slowly closed his eyes.
For a brief moment, the crimson assault reminded him of an old face, one he had long since buried beneath countless years.
A memory.
A shadow from the distant past.
"The power of Souls declines dramatically when wielded by someone other than their original bearer."
His voice was calm.
"I already knew that, but the difference is far greater than I expected."
His patience had begun to wear thin.
His opponents had failed to show him anything particularly interesting, and he had already started considering ending the battle quickly and subduing them without taking their lives.
That intention, however, changed.
For the first time since the battle had begun, the pressure surrounding him shifted.
A powerful aura suddenly began to swell.
Turning his head slightly, Frey realized that the source of the pressure lay beyond the walls of blood Izalith had created.
