Ignoring Vulkan's attempts to distract him with words, Curze hid in the darkness, searching for an opening.
His body blended into the shadows as he closed rapidly on Vulkan through the darkness.
His breathing grew almost imperceptible, his heartbeat slowed to a crawl, and his presence faded to the barest trace.
Even those with the keenest senses would have struggled to detect his position.
His gaze pierced the veil of shadows and fixed on Vulkan, studying every minute movement, the rhythm of every breath, and every flicker of power.
The weapon... the weapon...
Curze repeated those words silently to himself.
His gaze lingered on the warhammer in Vulkan's hands.
That warhammer, named "Plaguebearer," was the source of Vulkan's power, the key to his teleportation, and his most troublesome weapon.
Unless he could deal with that warhammer, he would never truly threaten Vulkan.
Curze pondered for a moment, rehearsing countless scenarios in his mind.
He imagined different angles, speeds, and moments of attack, predicted Vulkan's possible responses, then adjusted his tactics according to those predictions.
He also used his prophetic abilities to glimpse countless possible futures.
Endless branches spread through his consciousness like the limbs of a tree. Some led to victory, some to defeat, and some to death.
After countless rehearsals and visions, he made his decision.
They clashed again.
This time, Curze did not hide. Instead, he lunged straight at Vulkan.
His body burst from the shadows like an arrow loosed from a bow, shooting straight toward Vulkan's chest.
He moved with astonishing speed, leaving a black afterimage in the air. His arm blades traced two silvery arcs through the darkness, their edges sharp enough to tear through anything.
Riiip!
The arm blades plunged into Vulkan's abdomen.
Curze struck with ruthless precision. His arm blades pierced the skin reinforced