Something about the battlefield felt wrong.
It was not the blood, nor the broken stone, nor even the endless shrieks echoing across the ruined corridors of Thal'zar's inner defenses. Trafalgar had long since grown accustomed to those. It was the density. The pressure. The way the air itself seemed thicker with presence.
There were too many void creatures.
Far beyond any reasonable threshold.
His blade carved through another twisted torso, the strike clean, economical, followed by a short pivot that split a second one across the collarbone. Thousands had already fallen to him today. The number had stopped mattering somewhere in the first hour. Counting had become pointless.
And yet he did not feel tired.
There was unease, yes — a tight awareness coiled beneath his ribs — but there was something else woven into it. A sharp, electric exhilaration. The kind that only surfaced when the scale of danger grew large enough to sharpen every instinct he possessed.
More were coming.
