If Sol's battle had been a display of cataclysmic, world-ending pressure, Warchief Veylara's assault was a masterclass in close combat terrifying violence.
She did not merely fight the Coalition forces; she dismantled them with the casual efficiency of a butcher harvesting cattle.
Her feet dug into the blood-slicked limestone, leaving webbed fractures in the stone with every explosive burst of speed. She caught up to a fleeing cluster of Gray Marauders near the western ridge.
They had been all their might, desperate to outrun the crimson death behind them, no matter how dull witted they were they knew that fighting against a layer 4 powerhouse is a dead end, but Veylara was already there.
SWOOSH.
Her spear cut through the air, creating a shrill, whistling vacuum that pop-fractured the eardrums of the men closest to her. A Layer 3 Marauder berserker, sensing the lethal wind at his back, spun around with a desperate, animalistic roar.
