It had been an hour since the assault on Anbord, yet a strange silence weighed over the empire. Reports had streamed in, chaos had erupted, beasts had rampaged through the streets, but through it all—there had been no casualties.
Not a single death.
Dennise, now fully conscious, stood among his cohorts in the shadows of a ruined plaza. They had regrouped to observe, waiting for screams, for blood, for confirmation of the devastation they had unleashed. Instead, what they saw chilled them more than carnage ever could.
People were attacked—yes. Beasts struck with teeth and claws, machinery whirring with lethal precision. Yet every blow stopped short of fatal. Every victim rose again, shaken but alive.
It wasn't mercy. It was something far stranger.
Dennise's chest tightened. He could feel it in his bones, in the marrow of his soul. Something fundamental had shifted. This wasn't luck. This wasn't strategy. This was wrong.
