Siffleur raises an eyebrow to that one. Twelve stories is nothing to sneeze at. That's the height where bodies start becoming paste when they hit the ground. Siffleur finds it hard to imagine himself surviving, much less walking off.

"Tough bastard then." And yet, even though Siffleur doubts his own chances of survival, he would still enjoy fighting him. Sometimes it's good to see a human hurricane in action, just to feel what it's like. He taps his fingers on the counter. "Many undead in your world? Or just him?"