Earlier
The Commander vs Greg
Greg charged, spear first. With one flick of the Commander's wrist, he was swatted aside. Another strike followed—relentless, unyielding, never giving Greg a chance to breathe. Without Overhaul, his body simply couldn't keep up.
Each clash painted him redder, his own blood soaking through his clothes, dripping steadily from his lips.
Finally, a hammer strike smashed into his face, snapping his body backward. The impact hurled him across the battlefield, shattering the fence driving him outside. He lay broken and motionless, blood spreading into dark pools beneath him.
The Commander smirked. No doubt Greg was dead. The fight was his.
Greg's body didn't even flinch. His eyes remained shut, bruises glowed across his skin.
The underlings' mocking laughter echoed throughout the residence.
Suddenly, a tall shadow loomed over him. A familiar voice followed.
