The defensive line held.
No one relaxed, but panic faded. Fighters adjusted their positions. Mages conserved mana. Undead patrols moved in steady patterns, watching the streets beyond the perimeter.
Time passed.
Then—far above the city, a massive surge of power erupted.
Everyone felt it.
Golden light spread across the sky like a second sun.
Mike looked up.
"Did we win?" he mumbled as the final decision lay in the hands of those top dogs only when they win can they truly win.
High above the city, the fight had ended.
John stood at the center of a shattered plaza, his body covered in wounds. Blood ran down his arms and legs, but his back was straight, his eyes burning.
Around him lay eight masked enemies.
Six were dead.
Their bodies were torn apart, cut down by his own hands.
The floating Island they fought on was completely devasted, once an VIP place to live now its in ruins.
