Chapter 671: The Lone Survivor Of The Massacre
Tharionson and Zion halted mid-step as the scene fully came into view before them.
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.
Leaning weakly against the base of a tree was a figure—barely recognizable as human at first glance.
A woman.
What remained of her body was in a state that should not have allowed life to persist.
Her left leg was gone from the knee down, the wound crudely torn rather than cleanly severed. Her right thigh bore a deep, open gash, the flesh split wide. Her abdomen had been ripped open, her intestines partially spilling out and clinging against her torso. Her left arm hung in ruin, the forearm mangled to the point where bone was nearly visible through torn flesh. Her right shoulder had been cleaved deeply, blood still seeping steadily from the wound.
Her face… was worse.
Covered in dried and fresh blood, barely distinguishable beneath the mess. Her eyes—gone. Plucked out, leaving hollow, darkened sockets. Strands of her dark hair clung to her face, matted and tangled as she struggled to breathe—each inhale shallow, each exhale uneven.
And yet…
She still held onto her sword.
Her hand trembled violently around the hilt as she kept it raised, the blade wavering unsteadily in front of her as if she were still trying—still forcing herself—to defend against whatever she believed was coming.
Tharionson, Zion, and the others stood there for a moment, taking it all in.