Drake's massive blade was drenched in fresh blood and streaked with thick, black ichor. Every drop that hit the ground sizzled, corroding the surface beneath it—an eerie display of the creatures' unnatural power.
His face was smeared with blood as well, a deep scar running from his right cheek all the way down to his chin, fresh crimson still dripping from the wound.
No one knew how many of his comrades had already fallen. They were just ordinary people—ordinary humans using ordinary strength to fight against supernatural forces—the echoing screams of those even more helpless than they seemed like an omen of their inevitable defeat.
"This is actually better than what I expected," Layla murmured, surveying the chaos of the battlefield.
Frank, now bound to a chair, curled his lips into a mocking smile. "Looks like you don't care much about the survival of this world, do you? Just look at how indifferent you are."
