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The survivors had finally made it far enough from the battlefield. They dared not look back, driven by fear and awe of the unimaginable forces clashing behind them. The Mercenary King collapsed onto the earth, legs giving out beneath the weight of exhaustion and defeat. He coughed harshly, blood tinging his breath.
“Are you all right?” the Archbishop asked him, rushing to his side.
“I’ll be fine,” the Mercenary King groaned, though his voice shook.
It was just one attack. That was all it had taken. A mere flick of the demon’s finger, and the mighty Mercenary King had been rendered powerless. If not for pure instinct making him throw up his arms to protect his neck, his head would have twisted and snapped on the spot. He shuddered at the realization, feeling a deep sense of inadequacy and shame at the vast gulf between his strength and the powers at play in that accursed field. However, there was no time for self-pity—not now.
A distant rumble vibrated through the ground as an ominous, oppressive power that made the very air tremble and left every survivor on edge. Their bodies tensed, their hearts hammering in their chests. The source of that dreadful pressure was clear: Ketal was still fighting. Somewhere in that chaos, he was risking everything.
The Archbishop, voice quivering, said, “We… we have to do something. We have to help him, somehow…”
“There’s nothing we can do,” the Mercenary King said grimly, grabbing the Archbishop’s arm...
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