"He'd try."
The words left my mouth like an afterthought—calm, certain, final.
The general's face twisted, his expression souring into something between rage and disbelief. He tried to speak again, to force out one last threat, but only a wet, broken cough escaped him. Blood spilled down his chin, dark and steaming against the frost. His chest heaved once… twice… and then went still.
Silence.
His eyes, once burning with hatred, glazed over completely, the last remnants of defiance frozen in place.
Then the familiar chime broke through the quiet.
Ding!
[You have slain one of Drugar's Chosen]
[You have received 500 skill advancement points]
[You have inherited all of the Chosen's skills]
[You have inherited the Chosen's kill count]
I exhaled slowly, the tension rolling off my shoulders as I muttered under my breath, "Nice."
A small grin tugged at the corner of my lips as I clenched my fist and gave it a quick pump, the satisfaction brief but sharp.
