The smoke was thinning, drifting upward in curling ribbons as the debris of the explosion finally settled. Ash and dirt covered the ground, with shattered fragments of armour and burnt wood strewn like battlefield confetti. Among them, the knights slowly began to stir.
Groans of pain, followed by urgent shouts, echoed among the company.
The shock was still present—who would have thought such madness was possible? That even in defeat, these mercenaries from the Associations of Schadenfreude would resort to self-destruction?
In Luke's world, such a thing had a name. Suicide bombers. The most disgraceful of all tactics. Cowards with a cause, often empty, often twisted. To see it here, in this world too... it left a chill in his bones.
And then it began again.
Another mercenary—barely alive, his body marked with wounds, face painted in blood—began to mumble. Not a cry for help. Not a prayer. A chant.
His fingers twitched. Lips moved with eerie calm.
