The corruption touched The Reaper.

For exactly two seconds.

Then his body glowed with golden light—divine protection activating, burning away the corruption. But more than that, when the light faded, his eyes held that same corrupted gleam.

"Corruption magic," The Reaper said, his voice taking on multiple tones—his own mixed with something else, something darker. "The signature ability of Seraphine the Corrupted, fourth-seat demon lord. Used to bind beings to your will through transformation and dependency. It's actually really elegant magic. Subtle. Insidious."

He raised his hand, and corruption magic—identical to Seraphine's but stronger—radiated from his palm. "Want to see your own power reflected back at you? Because I can do that now."

Seraphine's face went pale. Her signature ability, the power she'd spent three centuries mastering, had been copied and enhanced in seconds.

"All of you, together," Lilith commanded, her voice tight with desperation. "Coordinated assault, Pattern Omega-Seven!"

The five commanders had trained together for this exact scenario—fighting an opponent vastly stronger than any individual could handle. They'd developed coordinated attack patterns that theoretically eliminated all possible dodge vectors, forced the opponent to defend or take damage.

Pattern Omega-Seven was their most complex—requiring perfect timing, perfect positioning, and perfect execution from all five simultaneously.

They executed it flawlessly.

Lilith's soul-fire created a dome of flames, eliminating escape upward. Veronica's earth magic erupted from below, eliminating escape downward. Morgana's dimensional blades cut off lateral movement by existing in multiple spaces simultaneously. Carmilla's blood magic formed a cage of draining spears closing from all sides. And Seraphine's corruption magic saturated the air itself, making the entire space a hostile environment.

It was perfect. No escape. No dodge vector. The Reaper had to either defend or take damage.

He didn't defend.

The attacks converged, and for a moment, dust and energy obscured everything. The commanders held their breath, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, their coordinated attack had succeeded.

Then The Reaper walked out of the dust cloud, completely untouched.

"That was actually really good," he said, sounding genuinely pleased. "You guys work together well. The timing was perfect. The coverage was complete. If I was anyone else, that would have killed me."

He brushed some dust off his coat. "But here's the thing about Absolute Adaptation—it doesn't just adapt to individual attacks. It adapts to attack patterns. You showed me Omega-Seven. I've now adapted to Omega-Seven. If you try it again, I'll counter it before you finish executing."

The commanders' hearts sank. They had seventeen coordinated patterns. If he could adapt to pattern execution itself, not just individual abilities…

"Let's test it," The Reaper suggested. "Try another one. Surprise me."

Veronica called out "Pattern Delta-Three!" and all five immediately shifted to a completely different formation. This pattern focused on overwhelming sensory input—conflicting magic signatures, light and sound distortions, dimensional instability—all designed to confuse and disorient.

The Reaper stood perfectly still in the center of it, eyes closed, seemingly analyzing. Five seconds later, his eyes opened.

"Delta-Three. Sensory overload pattern. Clever—most fighters would be disoriented. But I've adapted to sensory manipulation. My brain can now process and filter conflicting inputs automatically. Try the next one."

They did. Pattern after pattern, each one more complex than the last. Each one executed perfectly by five warriors with centuries of experience.

And each one, The Reaper adapted to within seconds.

By the tenth pattern, they were exhausted. The commanders had burned through enormous amounts of energy executing complex coordinated attacks, while The Reaper had barely moved, had barely expended any effort at all.

"You're running out of juice," The Reaper observed. "I can see it. Your attacks are getting sloppier. Energy efficiency is dropping. You've probably got one, maybe two more big attacks left before you're tapped out."

"Then we'll make them count," Lilith snarled, her soul-fire blazing brighter even as her body trembled with exhaustion.

What followed was desperation made manifest.

The commanders abandoned coordinated patterns and simply attacked with everything they had left. Raw power over finesse. Overwhelming force over tactical precision.

Lilith's soul-fire exploded in a nova that turned the surrounding buildings to ash. Veronica unleashed a twelve-school fusion spell that cracked reality itself. Morgana pulled weapons from other dimensions—legendary blades that shouldn't exist in this reality. Carmilla transformed into her true vampire form—a monstrous creature of blood and shadow that dwarfed buildings. Seraphine's corruption magic reached critical mass, turning the entire area into her domain.

And The Reaper... danced.

There was no other word for it. He moved through their desperate final assault like he was performing a choreographed routine, each dodge perfectly timed, each counter-strike precisely placed. He wasn't fighting—he was demonstrating the difference between their power and his.

Lilith's fire? He walked through it, his body adapting to the soul-burning properties, making him immune to spiritual damage. Veronica's fusion spell? He dissected it mid-cast, understanding its structure and pulling it apart from the inside. Morgana's legendary blades? He caught them bare-handed, his skin harder than mythical metal. Carmilla's monstrous form? He stared into her eyes and used her own vampiric dominance against her, forcing her to revert to humanoid shape. Seraphine's corruption domain? He breathed it in, metabolized it, and exhaled pure air.

One by one, the commanders fell.

Not killed—The Reaper was deliberately pulling his strikes, leaving them alive but thoroughly defeated. He didn't need to kill them. Breaking their spirits was sufficient.

Lilith collapsed first, her soul-fire extinguished, her four wings lying limp and broken on the ground. She'd burned through every ounce of energy trying to hurt him, and it hadn't been enough.

Veronica fell next, her twelve magical constructs shattered, her body wracked with arcane backlash from pushing her limits. She'd thrown every spell she knew at him, and all it had accomplished was teaching him more magic.

Morgana's dimensional form destabilized, forcing her back into single-dimensional existence. She lay on the ground, unable to access the abilities that had defined her combat style. He'd adapted to dimensional manipulation so thoroughly that being near him prevented her from using it.

Carmilla's vampiric nature was in tatters. The Reaper had adapted to blood magic so completely that being in his presence made her weaker, her own abilities turning against her. She couldn't even reform into mist anymore—he'd somehow adapted to prevent that escape.

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