When the final head was sent flying and hit the blood-soaked ground with a dull thud, Adyr cast a last glance around the clearing. With a sharp motion, he swung his blade, letting the blood splatter from its edge, then slid it back into the sheath strapped to his back.
"Probably their last batch of minions," he said calmly.
While cutting through the mutants, he noticed a clear shift in the enemy's movements. The presence controlling the cave was still acting against him, but its methods had changed. Earlier, every trap and obstruction had felt deliberate, restrained, almost methodical—like a hunter laying careful snares. Now, those attempts felt clumsy and rushed. The falling rocks struck without rhythm, the ground shifted chaotically, and the mutants were being thrown at him in waves without any real formation. It wasn't trying to outmaneuver him anymore. It was panicking.
