In the southern part of the city of Arkham, rain fell violently on the bloodstained ground, and the constant roar of the storm drowned out screams.
Alaric floated in the air in his immaculate white robe... completely dry, as if the weather dared not touch him. From that height, he watched the knights trying to hold back the tide of silver trolls, whose massive bodies advanced relentlessly. However, their leader still did not move.
As a third-circle wind mage, Alaric could face a rank IV monster on relatively equal terms. Victory would not be assured, but he would be able to hold it off long enough.
That was enough.
He glanced toward a side alley and narrowed his eyes coldly. He muttered a few barely audible words, and his figure moved like an invisible gust of wind.
In a matter of seconds, he appeared in front of a group of hooded figures running through the streets, taking advantage of the chaos.
So the young master was right... There had been infiltrators from the beginning.
