Deiora's grin widened, his massive chest still heaving from the impact of Sovereign Impact. Despite the blood trickling from his lips, despite the cracks in his aura, his voice carried the same unshakable confidence.
"Threats won't work on me. I can adapt to death itself if I have to. Your words mean nothing."
Adam's expression didn't change. His hand rose, and the air beside him shimmered. The Soul Reaper's Scythe materialized in his grip—its blade a deep, abyssal black veined with molten gold, its handle wrapped in worn leather that seemed to pulse with a faint, heartbeat rhythm.
He spun it once, the blade tracing a lazy arc through the air, and settled it against his shoulder with practiced ease.
"Then let's test that theory."
He took a step forward, the scythe humming with contained power.
"Come on, Deiora. Show me how you adapt to this."
