The warriors who had survived the carnage stood frozen, their breath shallow, limbs stiff. All color had drained from their faces.
Their eyes locked onto the silhouette of what they once mockingly called a pest—a lowly mosquito, a creature they'd never taken seriously. But now… that silhouette exuded a power so dense and suffocating that it seemed to distort the very air.
A heavy pressure radiated from Ricky's frame, not from any spell or overt aura, but from sheer presence alone. Their lungs tightened. Their pores shrank. Their hearts pounded with frantic force, as if attempting to flee from their chests.
It was like standing before something far beyond them—a being from a higher realm, an existence they could neither comprehend nor confront.
Their bodies tensed instinctively, like prey beneath the gaze of a predator whose interest had turned lethal.
"Dark Shadow…"
Ricky's voice cracked, raw and hoarse, as though he hadn't spoken in centuries.
