While Gilgamel and Collin were busy trying to find their next unfortunate teammate to sacrifice, in the Medicide Valley, the smell of scorched flora still lingered, remnants of the Blooming Dreadmaw's charred corpse smoldering in the distance. But the victorious calm that followed their desperate battle lasted barely a breath.
Now, their enemy stood before them—Rony, a member of the Ghost Council operative cloaked in dark green, eyes cold and voice laced with cruel amusement.
Blood dripped from the vine that had pierced Sheila's shoulder, thorns still embedded in her flesh.
Farad's knuckles were white around his Thunder Spear.
Magnus's magma aura simmered low but tense, his stance shifting, ready to fight.
Sheila grit her teeth through the pain, refusing to fall.
This wasn't just survival anymore.
This was war.
Sheila clutched her shoulder, staggering as a sharp chill laced through her veins. Her vision swam.
