The battlefield was eerily silent.
The air was thick with the stench of death and the intensity of the odor seems to be increasing by the second.
Pile of corpses—zombies, mutant creatures, and beasts—littered the ground. The faint rustle of wind stirred the blood-soaked earth, carrying with it the scent of decay and rot.
Leo stood at the center of it all, his breathing steady despite the exhaustion clawing at his body. His grip on Nightshade was firm, the blade dripping with black blood.
Beside him, Fiona and the wolf pack flanked him, their eyes locked on the figure standing at the entrance of the building.
Ryan.
His twisted smile remained, a mask of calm arrogance. His clothes were stained with blood, but he stood tall, his posture relaxed, as if the carnage around him was nothing more than an amusing spectacle.
