Devour a Race!

Precisely because he was so powerful.

Ian feared nothing.

He stood before that Weeping Angel, reached out, and gripped its wrist.

The stone texture was cold and rough, like holding a tombstone.

The little Xenomorph hissed uneasily on his shoulder, its tail wrapped tightly around his arm. Ian ignored it and simply stared at the angel before him, the one covering its face.

His fingers tightened slightly.

"Don't be afraid. I'm terrifyingly strong."

Ian truly did want to see their faces.

They were afraid of seeing one another, afraid of being locked by one another, afraid of being trapped forever in the state of stone statues. Perhaps that was a pathetic sign of a power even they themselves could not control.

Weeping Angels were merely a race whose evolution was not perfect enough.

Thinking this over.

Ian exerted force, but the angel's wrist did not budge in the slightest. Those hands seemed welded to its face, impossible to pry open no matter how hard he tried.

"You still dare resist?"

Ian frowned and increased his strength. His fingers sank into the stone surface with a grinding creak, powder sifting down through the gaps between them.

But the angel's hands remained over its face, unmoving.

"Interesting. It's not that you're stronger than me. You've locked your own state, have you?"

Ian murmured, assessed the situation, then released one hand and raised his right. Divine power poured into it as he prepared to forcibly destroy the Weeping Angel's hand.

As if it sensed the threat.

The angel began to tremble. Cracks appeared across its stone surface—not cracks of destruction, but cracks of molting. Dust rustled down.

But its hands still covered its face.

However, something had changed. The feeling it gave off as it stood there had changed—it was no longer a