Fabian and Jermaine moved alongside Noah, forming a steadfast line as they faced the valet.
The Valet's eyes sparkled with mischief, words dripping with mockery as he taunted Malachi, Deon, and Miguel, each taunt like a dagger intended to unsettle their resolve.
"Look at you, scared now, huh?" he jibed, his voice dripping with mockery.
The valet laughed, his eyes gleaming with a wicked delight. "I've been itching to scare someone like that," he said, savoring the unease he spread.
A chuckle rumbled in his throat, full of wicked delight. "Oh man, I’m going to enjoy this," he continued, clearly savoring the turmoil he had ignited.
"Still, I can't help but feel a bit sorry for you."
Miguel scoffed, "Why would you feel sorry for us?" The valet chuckled darkly and replied, "Because, hombre, I've been sent to claim your souls."
Malachi and Miguel exchanged wary glances. Deon snapped his fingers, and the moon sickle ripped out from the wall, whistling past Malachi's ear before Deon caught it effortlessly.
"Move," Deon commanded, and the brothers quickly stepped aside. The sickle transformed seamlessly into a staff in Deon's hands.
He thrust it toward the valet with immense force, but the valet slipped aside with uncanny agility, allowing the staff to crash into the wall, shattering it into a web of cracks and debris.
Miguel and Malachi exchanged a quick nod and launched into action, unleashing a flurry of left and right hooks.
Each strike landed with a sickening crunch, bones echoing under their relentless barrage.
Black blood sprayed out, coating their fists in inky splatters.
Miguel grimaced, pausing to glance at his tainted hand, "Ugh, what's this?" Malachi raised an eyebrow, "Really?" Just then, a clenched fist hurtled at Malachi, who braced himself and absorbed the blow, sliding back slightly.
He wiped blood from his lip, the valet cracking his neck menacingly, "Easy does it," before rushing forward.
As the valet charged, Jermaine appeared before Malachi with a growl that rumbled like a tiger's roar.
His clawed hand slashed across the valet's chest, causing him to recoil in agony, black blood pouring from the deep gashes.
The valet's face twisted in shock, his bravado faltering for the first time.
Malachi's gaze shifted to Jermaine, skepticism flickering as he took in the tiger-like marks and claws. "What the..." he muttered.
In a swift movement, Deon appeared behind the valet, pinning his arms.
"Do your thing, bro," he urged Jermaine. With a feral intensity, Jermaine began to slash at the valet's body, each swipe of his claws tearing flesh with visceral precision.
The valet’s cries were muffled by the rhythmic swish of claws meeting flesh, the air thick with the coppery scent of blood and the sight of dark gore splattering across the floor in a gruesome dance.
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The valet's head, a grotesque parody of a human skull, bounced once, twice, on the polished marble floor before coming to rest near Jermaine's feet.
The sickening *thwack* echoed in the cavernous space, followed by an unnerving silence.
Jermaine stared, his eyes wide, his breath catching in his throat.
The detached gaze in his eyes was replaced by a dawning horror, the weight of his action settling upon him like a physical burden.
His face paled, the color draining from his lips as the reality of what he’d done crashed over him.
"Woah!" Deon exclaimed, his head bobbing rhythmically, a strange mix of awe and morbid fascination in his voice.
"That's how it's done!" His words hung in the air, jarringly out of sync with the grim scene.
Malachi watched, his mouth agape. The sheer stupidity of the situation washed over him.
These guys… *these guys* were unbelievably reckless. He thought, *Seriously? Just… like that?*
The headless corpse, its momentum abruptly halted, stopped mid-fall.
A gruesome fountain of black, sulfur-smelling blood erupted from the severed neck, painting a macabre picture on the floor.
Then, as if by some perverse magic, the severed head was drawn back towards the body, the blood magically clotting and sealing the wound.
The flesh knitted itself back together, the head snapping back into place with a sickening *pop*. The eyes of the reanimated valet snapped open, focusing on Jermaine with pure, unadulterated malice.
Jermaine recoiled, his eyes bulging in disbelief. He stammered, unable to form coherent words.
A flick of the valet's fingers summoned a shadowy javelin that shot forth like a predator on the hunt, piercing Jermaine with harrowing precision.
The impact lifted him off his feet, pinning him to the wall above the door with a bone-jarring thud.
Noah, wide-eyed with shock, barely whispered, "Guys..." before the valet cracked his neck thoughtfully.
As this unfolded, Fabian's voice cut through the tension, yelling, "Jermaine!" Desperation laced his words as he ran toward his friend, urgency in his every step.
Noah’s eyes widened, mirroring the shock spreading through the room.
The others stared, speechless, at the valet who casually rolled his neck, the sound like gravel grinding against bone. "You know," he drawled, his voice a low, chilling rumble, "dying sucks."
Deon swung his staff in a wide arch, but the valet was faster, ducking fluidly under the attack.
"No kidding," Deon spat, his voice laced with frustration.
In an instant, the valet rushed at Deon, shoving his palm forward. A massive shadowy hand slammed Deon against the wall with bone-crushing force. As the hand vanished, Deon collapsed to the ground, leaving a dent in the wall.
Blood trickled from his lips as he lay there, struggling to breathe, his body aching from the brutal impact.
Simultaneously, Miguel, a fiery blur, rocketed towards the valet, blasts of flame erupting from his feet, propelling him forward like a human rocket.
Malachi and Noah shielded their faces from the intense heat, the air shimmering with the heat.
The valet casually swatted at Miguel's fiery assault.
A black, smoking whip, seemingly conjured from thin air, shot out from his arm, wrapping around Miguel, extinguishing his flames in a puff of acrid smoke.
A scream ripped from Miguel's lips as he was slammed through the wall, leaving a gaping hole in its place.
The valet turned his gaze back to the remaining fighters, his eyes cold and calculating. Jamming his thumb over his shoulder towards the hole in the wall, he said, his voice dripping with menace, "Yeah, he was a problem."
Malachi sneered, clenching his fist as blue veins pulsed beneath his sleeves.
Then, the sharp crack of a bullet sliced through the air, the valet's lower jaw shattering with visceral impact.
Bone splintered and teeth flew, the force of the shot snapping his head back violently.
Stunned, his body staggered, muscles reacting instinctively to the shock, struggling to remain upright.
Malachi, turned his head sharply at the sound.
Despite his pain, his eyes widened at the sight before him. The valet, once so menacing, now reeled under the bullet's brutal force.
As the valet faltered, Malachi's gaze flicked to the source of the shot, searching for an ally amid this chaos.
Malachi observed the new arrivals with unease. Dressed in green tactical gear and cloaks, their masked faces hidden beneath hoods, they moved with silent precision.
One of them lowered a smoking pistol, its barrel still warm from its recent shot.
At the forefront of this band stood an older man whose bearing was both commanding and composed.
A neatly trimmed grey beard added a dignified touch, while his eyes—one a striking blue, the other a rich brown—conveyed both wisdom and intensity.
His attire was a striking contrast to the menacing array around him.
Clad in a sophisticated teal suit, it spoke of elegance, yet strapped to his leg was a carbon steel sword, its presence a stark reminder of readiness for conflict.
When he spoke, his voice carried a weight that was impossible to ignore:
"Wolves, protect our people." It was more than a command; it was a rallying cry, a call to arms for the pack to shield their own against the encroaching chaos.
To be continued...