Draven moved further into the chamber, a barrier of psychokinesis shielding him. He had a phobia of filth—he hated it, hated the feeling of being dirtied by the chaos of battle or the grotesque nature of places like this. But today, even as a droplet of blood splattered onto his polished shoe, he didn't react. His anger was boiling, but it wasn't aimed at the mess. It was aimed at those who had done this—who had treated human lives like livestock, like experiments to be toyed with.
He lifted his foot slightly, using his psychokinesis to wipe the blood away with the same cold detachment he always had. But there was something different in his eyes now, a darkness that simmered behind the icy calm.
He moved on, entering the next chamber. The moment he stepped in, his sharp gaze caught sight of three orcs—each one dressed in robes that marked them as both shamans and researchers. Their eyes widened as they saw him, squeals of alarm escaping their lips.
