By the time Michael returned to the camp, the worst had already passed.
From above, the place looked oddly peaceful—if one ignored the scorched ground, shattered trees, and faint traces of blood staining the earth.
The fires had long died out, leaving behind blackened trails.
A strange calm had settled over the area, like the air itself was trying to forget the chaos that had erupted earlier.
Yet just outside the perimeter of the camp, the truth lay in plain sight—mangled monster corpses strewn in disarray, some burned, others sliced apart, a few with shattered skulls or pierced hearts. It was a massacre.
Michael's eyes then shifted to his armored humanoid undead who stood motionless as if waiting for orders.
Without hesitation, Michael leaned forward on Gale's back and pointed downward. The undead griffin let out a low screech and began descending in a spiral.
The knights noticed him before he even landed.
One of them raised a hand and called out, "Sir Mic has returned!"
