The formation was simple—too simple. Orc style.
Archers to the rear with heavy wood-crafted bows and thick mana-tipped arrows. Mid-range fighters with spears, glaives, and scythes forming a protective wall. The front lines bristled with axe-wielders and swordsmen, their tusks gleaming under torchlight as they pounded their chests.
Not a single dagger among them. Leon smirked faintly. 'Figures. Too small for their pride.'
The strategy was obvious. The mid-range would shield the archers while the long-range poured a storm of arrows. Then the close-range brutes would crash in to finish the kill.
A sound strategy against beasts. Against a lone human, even better.
Against Leon? It was suicide.
Leon sighed, twirling his crystalline dagger once in his grip. Then, without waiting for them to fully settle, he blurred forward. His body was a phantom, streaking across the savannah ground.
First, archers. Always archers. Weak, but damn annoying.
