The three-headed frog croaked, a guttural, echoing rumble that vibrated through the night air, and its central head snapped open its jaws.
From the darkness of its mouth, a familiar glint of metal emerged—a sleek, blackened archery bow that shimmered with a faint, ominous light.
Vonjo's eyes narrowed with satisfaction as he extended his hand, letting the frog drop the weapon into his grip with a wet clunk.
The bow felt warm, alive, like it resonated with the pulse of his curse energy.
He rolled his shoulders, the soft leather of his coat whispering against itself, and took a slow breath. His voice, steady and clear, rose in the dead street.
"Alright… let's try this again. Are you going to attack me, or are you just here to waste my time?"
The bandaged mummies gave no answer. Their eyeless, hollow faces stared—or seemed to stare—past him, their posture unmoving.
Their weapons, crude but deadly, stayed raised, yet there was no twitch of muscle, no lunging strike.
