These warriors had fought their own brutal battles on the way here. Small ambushes, hidden patrols, sudden beast attacks.
Not a single squad had come through untouched, but every single one had completed their mission in silence.
Despite all the blood, sweat, and pain, right now their breathing was perfectly synchronized. Their exhausted but determined faces told the story of their own hard-fought journeys through the jungle.
One hundred and eighty elite fighters, all staring toward the same central position.
Sol.
He stood slightly elevated on a thick, moss-covered root, black Rockhorn armor still glistening with fresh enemy blood. The Dreadwing Blade rested quietly at his hip, its sapphire glow dimmed to almost nothing. His face was calm, but his silver-crimson eyes were sharp and focused as he surveyed the enemy camp through the morning mist.
The individual squads had done their jobs perfectly.
