The sun—if you could still call that dim, red ember a sun—finally dipped behind the smoky skyline.
Night fell.
The air turned colder.
The moans of the injured mixed with distant howls, low and guttural.
The demonic beasts hadn't left.
They were waiting.
The city was quiet, but it wasn't safe.
Bai Zihan leaned against a cracked wall, wiping blood off his makeshift poleaxe with a torn strip of cloth.
His armor was dented, dirty, and far too tight in the shoulders.
His muscles ached, and there were three new bruises on his ribs from when he got thrown into a collapsed smithy.
(Tsk! What a weak body.)
He thought. Compared to his real body, which would have already healed from this kind of injury, this one was pathetic.
No power. Gets injured easily. Doesn't heal.
It was already a miracle he'd taken down so many demonic beasts with this kind of body.
Around him, a ragtag cluster of survivors had set up camp in what used to be a merchant plaza.
