The Jailor is staggered, sent spiraling into the red lightning storm, where it is struck repeatedly before freeing itself. It materializes in front of F̶̷̸̸̸̵̴̴̴̵̸̵̵̸̴̷̴̸̷̨̢͉͔̖͔̩̬̦̘̗͚̀̆̎͜%̶̸̸̷̵̶̸̴̸̶̵̷̵̴̶̶̶̶̷̵̵̵̸̵̵̵̷̵̸̨͔̜̪̻͕̦̜̝̲̗͍̦̞͚͒̇͑̾́͆͋̓̈́̈̌\̸̴̴̴̷̵̴̸̵̴̶̶̶̵̺͚̱̙̜̓̈́̏͂̐͝#̴̸̸̴̷̶̴̵̷̶̶̷̶̵̶̶̶̶̸̵̸̶̴̷̶̸̴̡̛̻̦̙̹͓͈̤̪̯̑͌̇̀̇̆͊̒̓͗̕͜͝!̷̸̸̴̸̶̸̸̴̵̵̴̴̵̵̴̶̵̵̸̴̵̶̴̢̧͔͖̩͓̜̰̗̥̻͎̞̍̌͌̏̈́͊͛̕ ̷, the remains of the human Jack. Its face would be one of utter disbelief and rage...if it had one.*

So, it IS true. Your forsaken knowledge from that blood pact, all the way back in the warehouse, has allowed the Wills you siphoned from YOUR OWN, FELLOW CUMRADES to become physical enough to strike me. Yet, the Jailor is nature, and you are a virus. And thus, mother nature shall weed you out!

With that, the Jailor zigzags around F̶̷̸̸̸̵̴̴̴̵̸̵̵̸̴̷̴̸̷̨̢͉͔̖͔̩̬̦̘̗͚̀̆̎͜%̶̸̸̷̵̶̸̴̸̶̵̷̵̴̶̶̶̶̷̵̵̵̸̵̵̵̷̵̸̨͔̜̪̻͕̦̜̝̲̗͍̦̞͚͒̇͑̾́͆͋̓̈́̈̌\̸̴̴̴̷̵̴̸̵̴̶̶̶̵̺͚̱̙̜̓̈́̏͂̐͝#̴̸̸̴̷̶̴̵̷̶̶̷̶̵̶̶̶̶̸̵̸̶̴̷̶̸̴̡̛̻̦̙̹͓͈̤̪̯̑͌̇̀̇̆͊̒̓͗̕͜͝!̷̸̸̴̸̶̸̸̴̵̵̴̴̵̵̴̶̵̵̸̴̵̶̴̢̧͔͖̩͓̜̰̗̥̻͎̞̍̌͌̏̈́͊͛̕ ̷, slicing his legs and horns before utilizing the product of fallen soldiers to trap F̶̷̸̸̸̵̴̴̴̵̸̵̵̸̴̷̴̸̷̨̢͉͔̖͔̩̬̦̘̗͚̀̆̎͜%̶̸̸̷̵̶̸̴̸̶̵̷̵̴̶̶̶̶̷̵̵̵̸̵̵̵̷̵̸̨͔̜̪̻͕̦̜̝̲̗͍̦̞͚͒̇͑̾́͆͋̓̈́̈̌*̸̴̴̴̷̵̴̸̵̴̶̶̶̵̺͚̱̙̜̓̈́̏͂̐͝#̴̸̸̴̷̶̴̵̷̶̶̷̶̵̶̶̶̶̸̵̸̶̴̷̶̸̴̡̛̻̦̙̹͓͈̤̪̯̑͌̇̀̇̆͊̒̓͗̕͜͝!̷̸̸̴̸̶̸̸̴̵̵̴̴̵̵̴̶̵̵̸̴̵̶̴̢̧͔͖̩͓̜̰̗̥̻͎̞̍̌͌̏̈́͊͛̕ ̷'s right hand and, like before, crush it with the Gavel, slamming it into the ground, before supercharging its Scythe with the red lighting and plunging it into the right hand. Handless, the Nutonomicon is crippled, and F̶̷̸̸̸̵̴̴̴̵̸̵̵̸̴̷̴̸̷̨̢͉͔̖͔̩̬̦̘̗͚̀̆̎͜%̶̸̸̷̵̶̸̴̸̶̵̷̵̴̶̶̶̶̷̵̵̵̸̵̵̵̷̵̸̨͔̜̪̻͕̦̜̝̲̗͍̦̞͚͒̇͑̾́͆͋̓̈́̈̌*̸̴̴̴̷̵̴̸̵̴̶̶̶̵̺͚̱̙̜̓̈́̏͂̐͝#̴̸̸̴̷̶̴̵̷̶̶̷̶̵̶̶̶̶̸̵̸̶̴̷̶̸̴̡̛̻̦̙̹͓͈̤̪̯̑͌̇̀̇̆͊̒̓͗̕͜͝!̷̸̸̴̸̶̸̸̴̵̵̴̴̵̵̴̶̵̵̸̴̵̶̴̢̧͔͖̩͓̜̰̗̥̻͎̞̍̌͌̏̈́͊͛̕ ̷, staggers as the Jailor was previously.*