A heavy silence descended on the battlefield, dense and stifling, as if the world itself had been caught holding its breath.
In that suffocating stillness, a storm raged inside Ricky's mind. A thousand thoughts flashed through his head—blazing, bitter, loud—but none made it past his lips.
He wanted to shout, to curse, to vent the boiling rage surging through every fiber of his being.
But he didn't.
He remained still. Silent. Cold.
Yet his stillness was a lie.
His spiritual seed trembled violently, betraying the storm that brewed within. Rage—pure, raw, and unfiltered—pulsed through it like dark lightning, demanding release.
Then, in a blink—
Ricky vanished.
He moved like a phantom, ripping through reality, space itself buckling around the sheer speed of his movement.
But Twenty-nine, the undead elite, didn't even blink.
His obsidian eyes remained calm—eerily calm—like the still surface of a deep lake untouched by the storm overhead.
