The door, though weathered and rickety, became a crucial barrier between Cyrus and his pursuers. With a swift motion, he thrust the door closed, using the last vestiges of his strength to barricade it with debris scattered in the room beyond. The thugs, fueled by a mix of frustration and determination, pounded on the door, their muffled threats and demands reverberating through the narrow corridor.
Cyrus, now locked in the relative safety of the room, took a moment to catch his breath. The exhaustion, both physical and magical, weighed heavily on him. Beads of sweat streamed down his face, mixing with the dirt and grime that clung to his skin. The machete, once a gleaming weapon of defiance, now bore the scars of the intense struggle.
