One of Ross' son whispered, almost to themselves, "I… I never imagined Mom could do this…"
Another nodded silently, their face pale. "All this time… we thought we were strong, but compared to them, we're nothing."
Even as they spoke, their mothers continued to move like living storms, invisible blades and arcs of energy carving through the zombies.
Their attacks were not just powerful—they were surgical.
Every strike was calculated, efficient, and final. No zombie, young or old, could survive their wrath.
And yet, somehow, there was no malice in their movements—only precision, purpose, and an undeniable sense of protection for their children.
It was a terrifying, humbling spectacle.
The children could feel the weight of their mothers' power pressing down on them, a force so immense it reshaped the battlefield.
The surviving zombies recoiled instinctively, sensing danger beyond comprehension, and some even retreated in fear before being cut down.
