Chapter 68: The Spoils of the Purists
The thick white steam venting from my Vanguard Arm began to dissipate, mixing with the foul smell of corrupted blood and shattered glass.
The underground laboratory was completely silent, save for the pathetic, wet coughing coming from the raised stone platform.
Lord Therion lay on the floor, his pristine white armor stained crimson.
His severed arm rested a few feet away, the glowing rapier finally dimming into cold steel.
"Secure the perimeter," I ordered, my voice echoing in the cavernous room.
"Make sure none of those Chimeras are playing dead."
Rolf did not hesitate.
The towering werewolf stomped over to the nearest ruined Chimera and drove his heavy iron battleaxe straight through its skull just to be absolutely certain.
CRUNCH!
"They are dead, Boss," Rolf growled, pulling his weapon free.
He then turned his golden amber eyes toward the bleeding High Elf on the platform.
