In the blink of an eye, ghostly blue mist and fine rain flooded every corner of Old Dunling. This was the last step of the plan: to clean the battlefield, to sever the continuation of the erosion. It was also the very reason the Cleaner Squad existed.
They were undertakers hiding beneath the shadow, burying countless twisted and treacherous tales of Evil Anomalies.
...
"So where exactly are you taking me?"
Bola lay on the swaying stretcher, being carried off the battlefield by the medics. His eyes were half-closed, leaving only a narrow slit, through which he watched the blurred world. Exhausted to the point of collapse, even his voice was weak, yet he stubbornly clung to consciousness.
"Isn't it just the nearest outpost?"
Bola kept muttering, but no one answered him.
The doctors had done some emergency treatment; he wouldn't die for the moment, but he still needed further care. Yet it seemed there was something that mattered more than his treatment.
