Marco and Arlo stood several meters away from Arthur, gripping their weapons so tightly that their knuckles had turned pale.
The ruined street of the dungeon gate stretched around them—broken pillars leaning at dangerous angles, shattered windows of ancient buildings staring down like hollow eyes.
A faint crimson glow bled from the sky above, bathing everything in a dim, hellish light. Dust drifted lazily through the air, disturbed only by the subtle tremor of killing intent that pressed down on the street like an invisible weight.
Sweat dripped from Marco's temple, sliding down the side of his face and falling onto the cracked dungeon floor. It sizzled faintly against the warm stone infused with residual mana.
Arlo's breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The string of his bow creaked as his fingers trembled slightly against it.
His pupils were dilated, locked onto Arthur as though staring at a venomous snake coiled and ready to strike.
