Quinlan watched the battle unfold beneath the walls. Four hundred and fifty were now locked against the Fujimori's first wave, clashing in close quarters. From above, it looked less like a chaotic melee and more like a deliberate push because each squad moved with machine-like rhythm.
The Fujimori front had entered a brief state of disarray due to the emergence of so many summons. They thought they were about to win the siege. But even worse, the people they were now forced to fight were the perfect images of their slain comrades.
Many cried out, begging them to return to their senses.
But such a thing would not happen.
Quinlan's eyes shifted toward the elites.
He studied them carefully. Going from rank three to rank four hadn't made them stronger in the raw sense.
Their presence didn't crush the air around them, and their movements weren't faster than before. In truth, they still felt like people in the mid-fifties range. What changed was the way they thought.
