He just kept killing.
One slash, two slashes, three slashes—every strike hit a vital point, every strike took a life. But he knew he could not kill as fast as they could.
Blood kept flowing across the battlefield, turning the ground sticky and slick.
Demon hunters' blood and berserk angels' blood mixed together, carving channels through the gray-white ground.
Those channels all led in the same direction—toward Metatron's feet. His barrier was drawing in the blood like a patch of rotten mud that could never be filled.
With every mouthful it absorbed, the barrier grew a little brighter. And with every bit it brightened, one more crack vanished from the blade in his hand.
Wu Heng watched the blood flow toward Metatron's feet and raised his left hand. The Hell Mark in his palm flashed.
The flowing blood suddenly slowed, as though something had caught hold of it. Blood that had been rushing along became thin streams, and those streams became droplets that crept toward the barrier one drop at a time.
Metatron's smile faded slightly.
He lowered his head to look at the barrier beneath his feet, then looked at Wu Heng. "You're competing with me for it?"
Wu Heng said nothing.
He raised his right hand again. Streams of black aura spread out like countless claws, and the blood slowed even further.
The barrier's glow dimmed a little.
Metatron tightened his grip on the hilt. Light began seeping from the cracks on the blade again.
The lights were like tentacles, reaching toward the corpses on the battlefield and drawing strands of golden mist from them.
They were all soul fragments—the souls of those who had just died, not yet dispersed. The mist was sucked into the blade, and several more cracks disappeared from its surface.
The markings in