Chapter 60: Werewolves
A quarter mile away from the scorched, blood-soaked battlefield, three bandits ran like madmen, desperate to flee as far as they could.
These three were the only ones lucky enough to survive the dragon’s breath, but even then, they didn’t escape unscathed. Their bodies were covered in burns and bruises, their eyes full of terror, and their minds in utter chaos. One of them sobbed loudly while fleeing, another stared blankly at the ground.
The most rational of them mumbled with a shocked expression:
"He’s a monster."
"A monster."
"He’s not human like us. He killed everyone he spared no one. Not even his own followers." Every time the bandit remembered Arvan’s cold face and mocking gaze, he trembled from the depths of his soul.
He wasn’t someone with weak resolve. He was a veteran bandit who had robbed and killed people for years, had fought in small skirmishes, and stared death in the face many times. But this time was different. The massive flaming dragon head that wiped out everything in one breath made him realize just how pathetic, weak, and worthless he was. Inside, he vowed to abandon banditry and turn his life around.
"Ah..."
Lost in thought, he suddenly heard a faint scream nearby. His body trembled in fear, thinking that the mad Arvan had found them. He turned quickly toward the sound but saw nothing. More accurately, he didn’t see the second bandit who had been fleeing with them.
"Ah!" Before he could process what was happening, the other bandit screamed. He turned toward the sound again, but once more found nothing. His face twisted in horror, and he picked up his pace, but suddenly tripped over a tree root and crashed to the ground.
"Damn it!" he cursed bitterly.