Standing along the choas was none other than Lazarus, the man Denovan had sent to lead Thompson's forces against Javia.
His sword was already stained with blood.
Around him, the battle raged without mercy.
Gunfire ripped through the night while the clash of steel echoed across the island.
Bodies littered the sand, and the salty breeze carried the bitter scent of blood and gunpowder.
Yet Lazarus's attention wasn't entirely on Javia's men.
His brows furrowed as his gaze swept toward the mysterious figures dressed in black.
They moved through the battlefield with terrifying speed.
Almost like flashes of darkness.
"Who were they?" He murmured with creased brows.
Before the thought could settle, movement flickered from the corner of his eye.
An enemy charged toward him, letting out a furious roar as he raised his sword high above his head.
Lazarus didn't hesitate.
The moment the blade began its downward arc, his wrist turned with practiced precision.
