"What my master requires is obedience, absolute order and cohesion. These stubborn traitors are like rust growing under his authority. Yes, they...are 'waste'."
"And my mission," a hint of fanaticism appeared on his pale face, "is to transform 'waste' into... 'resources'."
Zerick no longer looked at the desperate Merfolk and Lizardman marauders, he just slightly lifted his chin toward the shadow behind him.
"Purify them."
The dozens of Guardian Clan acolytes he brought had been standing behind him like ghosts.
They did not recite any Tartak's familiar natural prayers or Holy Light Doctrine but began chanting sinister spells.
The ancient and deep voice was like whispers from Hell, carrying a scorching intensity that tore at the nerves of the living.
Tartak's face showed a trace of pain, but fortunately, he could still endure it, whereas the bodies lying at his feet could not.
