So when he wandered into this mess, the Myriad Operation as the humans called it, his eyes locked on one fighter in particular. A Hero, battered and bleeding out on the ground. Nasty gash across his head, stomach torn open like something massive had clawed through—classic Rogue handiwork. But the guy was still kicking, barely.
Drakar crouched down, tilting his head. "Hey, human."
The man cracked his eyes open, locking onto him with a glare that cut through the pain. "De-Demon... What the hell are you doing here?"
Drakar arched a brow. Sharp instincts—this one had sniffed out his aura right away. He concealed his aura to avoid the others detecting him. "Need a hand?"
The Hero looked away, grunting as he pushed himself up, using his sword like a crutch. Blood soaked his armor, but he wouldn't stay down. "I know your kind. Won't make a deal with the likes of you. Get lost."
