A few days had passed since Alex's first strike against the Red Demons on Gorath. The once desolate desert was now littered with patches of obsidian glass, each one marking the grave of another underground city destroyed.
Each molten crater was a symbol of the devastation he had wrought upon his enemies—cities erased, entire populations incinerated beneath the destruction caused by his Phoenix fire.
In the span of those days, Alex had hunted without rest, moving from one bunker to the next with cold precision. His anger had not waned, and his attacks had only grown more methodical, more calculated.
The Red Demons had learned quickly that there was no defence against him. They had tried to fortify their bunkers, attempted desperate ambushes, but none of it mattered.
Alex would arrive, the ground would split, and the molten sand would do the rest.
