Bradley steadied himself and forcefully exhaled. Mist spewed from his mouth, instantly spreading through the surroundings, while his body shriveled at a visible rate.
"Night Watcher, you may be strong, but you must still repent before death."
He raised both hands high, harsh, strange sounds issuing from his mouth. With each shrill chant, balls of earth swelled out of the ground around Clint, as though something were gestating inside them.
Dense mist rose, and the air around them suddenly grew viscous. Clint's charge slowed slightly, and he stopped. The mist did not obscure his vision, but everything about those balls of earth felt strange.
"This Living Dead knows some spells, too."
Clint kept a close watch on the balls of earth around him. Every one of them radiated danger.
Clint held his breath and focused. The commotion here was considerable; the Night Watchers patrolling Lane Village were bound to notice. He only needed to hold out until the others arrived.
Ignoring the pain in his palm, he gripped his cane tightly.
The balls of earth grew larger and larger, stopping only when they reached the size of a baby's head. Arms that seemed molded from mud burst through them, stretching endlessly as they reached for Clint.
The mud hands were fast, but Clint was no slower. Spirituality power coated his cane, and he moved as nimbly as a cat, darting about in the cramped space and weaving between the mud hands, smashing each one that reached for him.
But the shattered mud hands kept growing back, and their numbers only increased. Clint was like a canary in a cage, trapped among them.
Bradley watched Clint struggle, a cold sneer curling his lips. His body gradually turned insubstantial as he walked toward Clint, step by step.
"Death is where you belong."