Malik walked slowly.
One step at a time, his boots cracking the snow beneath.
And though he moved slow, every step landed with a BOOM, not metaphorical, but real.
The Aether around his body had warped, condensed, burned, and reshaped itself into fire.
It bled into the soil, warped the snow into smoke.
He was a walking, active volcano.
Every single footfall shook the earth.
Yet, for all the fear he inspired, he looked half-dead.
No, not even.
He looked post-death. Like someone who had kept going after death had already come and taken him.
Paler than ever, his skin was split, spiderwebbed with fissures of blue and gold. His eyes, which returned to their usual gold, were blank—bloodshot, flickering with dying flame.
His lips were cracked, blackened by the fire that constantly leaked from between them in slow embers.
His body hummed, barely holding itself together under the pressure.
One might think he'd be rejuvenated after becoming a Great Demon, but no.
