"You are weak." Sylas said coldly.
A clawed gauntlet held onto Mosun's head, the latter's eyes slowly losing what life they had left in them. The power of Death seeped into him, and Sylas realized now that he had more mental real estate to understand why Death was so effective against this man and their race as a whole.
They were practically a race of undead. The life aura they were giving off was what was stolen from the worlds they sucked dry themselves, ironically making it a lot easier to suppress them.
Their life wasn't tied directly to their Will, so they were even less resistant to death than most.
If the World Spirit had had the opportunity to attack on its own, it could have wiped them out on its own.
