The remaining two grandmasters refused to stay idle. Xyrael, the man with the iron mask and a soulbone bracelet wrapped around his wrist, made his move. He raised both hands high, and from beneath his tattered cloak, hundreds of dark chains slithered out one by one, extending forward like wild serpents breaking free from their cage. They stretched out for dozens of meters, dragging along the ground with the deafening clatter of metal.
"Malchaezar, don't just stand there. Show us your star prophecy," Xyrael called out, his voice deep but laced with excitement. Then he shot forward, his body propelled like a pendulum pulled by the force of the swinging chains. The ends of the chains swept through the ranks of robots in their path.
Each time a chain hit its target, a flash of black light engulfed the machine's body, draining its energy until it dimmed completely. Only empty, powerless husks were left clattering to the ground.
