Ruka hovered in the air, Spirit Blade humming with light.
Below him, the battlefield was a massacre.
And still… more came.
But this time—something was off.
The next group wasn't just fodder. They weren't the twitchy half-breeds or blood-hungry street-level wolves. No. These ones stepped with weight. With presence. The kind that made the air feel thicker.
Elder.
You could tell from the way the others moved around them. Clearing space. Lowering heads. Holding their breath.
And at the center of the advancing group—
Drax.
His boots crunched glass as he walked through the corpses. Unbothered. His hands in his pockets.
Behind him, more figures appeared—each from a different direction.
Three vampires, cloaked in tattered robes and lined with old tattoos glowing faintly across pale skin. Each one carried a different weapon—scythe, chained sickles, and a bone-like blade that vibrated with death energy.
