"Fuckin' awful," Devero grits out, trying to rally himself enough to-- well, there's not much he can do from up here, not with his pistol down in the dirt somewhere. Hang on to Trunks's arm under his, at least.

"Feels like I've been burned. Might need to have you drop me behind the front somewhere."

With the leader of this little cohort of demons disintegrating into ash from the inside out and their big buddies already rotting away into nothing, it doesn't take many blasts from Trunks to disperse the ones that remain. They scatter like ants indeed, as many of them as can get away, to melt back into the main force elsewhere.

(They leave Devero's holy weapons behind where they'd been immediately dropped. Apparently, they can't even bear to touch the things.)