John didn't just recognise the archetype; he realised the bait had been swallowed whole.
Thousands of them were now on the ground, leaving the safety of their silver decks to loom over what they perceived as easy prey. He could clearly identify the hierarchy: the winged demons were the elite, the commanders of this floating circus.
Ten of them stepped forward, moving with leisurely, arrogant steps as if they were enjoying a moonlit stroll rather than preparing for an execution.
"The last we heard, the human race had never risen from the dirt," one of the winged Demons said, lazily spinning a pair of arched, short scythes. The blades whistled through the air, humming with a volatile energy. "Tell me, little monkey... Which race is dominating your zone? Who are you serving?"
