Dylan had thought that after forcing Julius to take up a weapon, the colossus would attack without hesitation. But against all odds, he remained still, staff in hand, and slowly turned his head, as if trying to show him something.
Intrigued, Dylan followed his gaze.
The sight froze him.
It was a field of ruins. The trees, once standing like living ramparts, now lay shattered on the ground, split in two, punctured like mere toys. Broken branches formed a chaotic carpet, while crushed trunks still bore the circular scars of projectile impacts. The earth was gouged with craters, as if after a bombardment. The air reeked of sap, torn soil, and blood.
His blood.
He felt it everywhere: on his skin, in his mouth, clinging to the rags of his clothes. He felt like a puppet torn to shreds, every movement sparking an electric agony.
But the most troubling detail wasn't there.
