The demons felt it first. A Hell Knight charged, its roar lost under the weight of a beat that seemed to vibrate the very atoms of the corridor. The Slayer didn’t even look at it. He caught the beast's jaw in mid-air, timed to the precise moment the snare hit. Snap.
As the hour mark approached, the Slayer stood atop a pile of charred chitin and cracked skulls. The loop reached its final, most aggressive peak. The air around him began to glow—not from Argent energy, but from the sheer friction of his intent. The music finally cut to silence.
The Slayer stood in the sudden, deafening quiet. His chest didn't heave. He simply looked down at his blood-slicked gauntlets, then up at the next reinforced door.
Thirty minutes in, the Slayer realized the rhythm was his pulse now. He stopped using his guns. The Super Shotgun was too slow for this tempo. He switched to the Doomblade, his movements becoming a blur of choreographed violence. He wasn't just fighting; he was conducting.
He didn't need the music to continue. He had memorized the beat.