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Lamont and Jackson were sticking to him like glue, both in the air and on the ground, following him wherever he leapt, even when he hopped atop Roberts or their own generals. Their wispy, amorphous bodies barely seemed human anymore as they had both become the very essence of cold and hot, respectively.

They swirled around him like twin ghosts, smothering him with innumerable blades of frost and flame. Waves of heat or its absence tried to pummel him constantly, to throw him off balance. And hands appeared from thin air, trying to grasp and grapple with him, to prevent his movement so that any other attacks might land.

This was a deadly dance, the Mad Demon knew--and a bit unfair, considering how many hands were flying his way. They were only supposed to have four between them, but he was counting upwards of twenty. If he actually bothered to deflect them all, he might've been in trouble.

Half or more were mirages, though--illusions conjured by heat and pan-rozum, meant only to distract. Some were more effective than others, but he could usually tell the real from the fake.

The auras tended to give it away. Theirs, as well as his own.

So when he was able to grab Lamont's wrist and yank him closer to clutch his neck, Morgunov wasn't sure why the man looked so surprised on his icy face. Had he thought he would be able to slip away again like a cold breath of air? Just because pan-rozum was normally able to wriggle free of soul-infused hands?

No, no, no, eheheh. Not with this particular glove on. Lamont was probably feeling its soul-weakening effects already.

His back was now turned to Jackson, and he could sense that the flamey boy was gearing up for another doozy of an attack. Probably something more concentrated--and therefore, more deadly--than that tidal wave had been.

Yeah, probably didn't want to mess with that. Now seemed like a good time for the Mk. Vs to decloak.