Alone, the undead Kharv battled the General's elite squad in a display of brutality and savagery. Every swing of its axe was meant to reap lives.
None could survive its single strike.
No matter how sturdy their armor was.
No matter how powerful their bodies were.
The outcome remained the same.
Death.
Greater Dune Scorpions were split into two.
Their stingers were reduced to nothing like dry tree roots, snapped at will. Their thick pincers shattered into countless fragments.
Their hard carapaces failed to withstand the terrifying Peak Bronze Grade axe. Even the desert beneath them split apart from the tremendous force.
Like a god of death, the undead Kharv moved between the elite squad, harvesting their souls with terrifying efficiency.
Every leap carried it several meters forward.
Every landing shook the battlefield.
Its soul fire flickered endlessly within its hollow eye sockets.
No grace.
No finesse.
Direct.
Savage.
Gory.
It was a style born purely for slaughter.
