The Oblivion Drake soared over the burning capital, its spectral form cutting through the smoke. On its back, Fester surveyed the chaos below with cold, calculating eyes.
Everything had gone wrong.
The eastern command—broken. The western command—broken. Morrigan captured. Clamour captured. Smithy turned traitor. The depots destroyed. The mutation crystals shattered. The Cleansing, which had been meant to sweep across the outer regions like a purifying fire, had been blunted at every turn. And the cause of it all was a single D-Rank Archer who should have died a dozen times over.
Nathan Cross, the Bunny King.
Fester's pale eyes narrowed. The Cleansing wasn't over—not entirely. The other sectors were still active, still burning. But the momentum had shifted. The TCA was pushing back. The guilds were coordinating. And Fester himself was exposed—his position compromised, his operatives scattered, his army of corrupted creatures culled to a fraction of its former strength.
