As things stood, it was pretty obvious and painfully direct.
King Jared's arm had been torn clean off, the wound jagged and mangled, blood still dripping steadily onto the ground beneath him.
No matter how hard he tried, no regeneration followed. He scrambled to his feet with uneven footing, his breath coming out in harsh, ragged gasps.
His expression was a horrifying blend: half filled with fear and resentment, half bearing a wild, unfocused gaze that showed he was already halfway lost to madness, driven there by humiliation and rage.
Clara stood beside him, her posture stiff and rigid, her eyes fixed downward as if the ground itself had personally offended her. Yet even as she tried to contain herself, her anger practically exuded from her like an aura—thick, suffocating, and sharp enough to be felt by everyone standing nearby. The air around her seemed heavier, charged with something dangerous and volatile.
The hunters fell to their knees almost in unison.
