They weren't fourth‑rank creatures, not yet at least. They were third‑rank, more or less self‑aware. Beefed up by the moon, but above all by an animal intelligence born of excessive absorption of essence corrupted by negative energy. They moved as though they understood what danger was, what the Guardian was.
And for the first time, they hesitated.
They lingered just outside the circle. Their heads tilted slightly, as if sizing up the space, searching for blind spots. One of them sidestepped, its claws sinking into the sticky ground in a fluid, precise motion…
The Guardian flicked his wrist.
That was enough.
The blade sliced the air with the same methodical slowness. It traced a perfect arc following the curve of the creature's flank. But this time the blow wasn't clean.
The beast pulled back just in time.
