It's here.
A series of hurried footsteps, accompanied by heavy, painful breaths, broke the dead silence within the force field as they drew nearer.
Under the dim streetlight's halo, a group of figures stumbled into view.
About forty people, each in a wretched state, with everyone wounded.
Those with severed limbs had blood soaking half their bodies, and those with pierced chests could only move with the support of companions.
More people bore wounds deep enough to expose bone, their breaths feeble, eyes filled with the shock of surviving catastrophe and bone-deep fatigue.
Their combat uniforms were of varied styles.
Covered in blood and dust, distinctly the Desolate Bone Corps' standard issue.
Leading the group was an old captain Fang Qingyu recognized.
One of his arms hung limply, corroded by some kind of erosive energy, flesh and blood mutilated, bones visible, blood dripping continuously from his fingers, tracing a broken line behind him.
