He leaps high, then descends—slamming into the ground like a meteor, the impact alone pulverizing a dozen soldiers beneath him. Blood and dust fill the air.
More try to run.
More fail.
His claws carve through flesh. His fangs sink into throats. Every movement is a blur of death, his speed and strength unmatched. Soldiers die in droves, their screams drowned beneath the relentless slaughter.
But even with his power, even with his speed—he can't kill them all.
They run. As fast as their broken bodies can carry them.
And Varkas?
He only laughs.
By the time the last of the coalition soldiers vanish beyond the horizon, the battlefield is eerily quiet. The ground is soaked in blood, the air thick with the scent of death and burnt flesh.
From the fortress walls, the soldiers watch in stunned silence. No one speaks. No one moves.
Then—
"By the gods..." Nyssara finally breathes, her golden eyes wide with disbelief. "General Varkas is amazing!"
She isn't the only one thinking it.
