James's squad had been fighting for what felt like an eternity, one full cycle in this cursed city, yet the battle never truly changed.
The undead kept coming.
No matter how many times they were cut down, burned, or shattered, their bodies always returned. If their numbers dipped below a certain threshold, the wave would simply rise again, as if the horde itself refused to die.
And the worst part?
The copy was slowing down.
James's gaze darted toward it, heart sinking. Leon's copy was a blur of steel and sweat, slashing, blocking, breaking bones that reformed minutes later. But even through its relentless movements, James could see the fatigue, its breathing was ragged, its stance unsteady.
'Two more waves at most,' James thought grimly. 'After that, the Lord's copy will fall.'
