Debris rained from the collapsing ceiling after Huey's attack.
His lone finger softly descend to the ground and Huey stood alone amongst the desolation that spread.
There was a twisted grin on his face, and his sword was unsheathed next to him.
The ominous black sword exuded a regal authority of contrasting chaos into the air around it. Dull red veins snaked around the long, and flat blade, previously pulsing with life and power a second ago.
Now those veins lay dormant. Their dark red details, marking the otherwise inky black blade, and further accentuating the sense of feral oppression it emitted.
There was nothing left after Huey's attack.
The dozens of tendrils from the abomination had simply been erased the moment he decided to execute a form.
Many could tend to forget when they interacted with him, but Huey was in fact still a master sowrdsman, who spent over a hundred years developing a style and mutating it to fit his form.