Forty civilians.
For anyone else, that number alone would've meant despair. Protecting even half of them from a dungeon outbreak was close to impossible.
But not a single one of them was trembling.
Their eyes were fixed on the dark-haired woman standing at the front. Her presence alone was enough to steady their hearts.
Rachel moved like flowing water. Every vine, every whip of thorns that lashed toward her—she slipped past them with effortless grace, her steps so light it seemed as if she barely touched the ground.
And when the plants overextended, losing their balance and tangling among themselves—
"Get lost."
The words were flat, almost lazy.
Then came the surge.
It wasn't even a spell, just pure mana bursting outward in a violent wave. Yet the mana itself was different—alive, brimming with form.
It roared, reshaping into something primal.
