Nameless Death tried to move, but his arms wouldn't lift.
"What is the power you strive for?" Berserker asked again. "Is it the kind of power that earns you praise? That brings you fame? Or did it come because you wanted to crush your enemies? What is it? What makes your Path yours?"
Nameless Death didn't answer.
He heard the words, however.
They weren't meant as insults or challenges.
Berserker wasn't trying to humiliate him.
He was just... asking.
His Path?
It's…
Before the thought could finish, Berserker's fist drove into his abdomen.
The punch landed with bone-crushing weight, and Nameless Death coughed up a mouthful of blood.
The taste was metallic and bitter.
He instinctively tried to rewind time. Or heal. Or do something. Anything.
Nothing worked.
His techniques didn't respond. His power felt distant, buried under thick sludge.
Berserker's Chaos elementals were everywhere now—inside his body, around his core, tangled through his mind and Seed of Existence.
