Meanwhile, in Stafford in the Far East, the final battle had finally begun.
As noon approached, Elena, Miria, Galatea, and thirty other Claymores quietly arrived at the outskirts of the Organization's headquarters.
They hadn't encountered a single enemy along the way. It was only when they reached this flat, strategic pass, where they could catch a distant glimpse of Stafford's ruins between the sheer cliffs and the rocky hills of the wasteland, that they first met the opponents the Organization had sent to intercept them.
There was no doubt about it: the ones sent out weren't the Organization's warriors—not the kind known as Claymores.
After all, a large portion of the latest generation of Claymores trained by the Organization had been captured alive by them earlier. They were currently staying in a small town near the border between the Far East and Rabona. So the ones standing before the thirty women now were a different group of bizarre creatures—ones that might not even qualify as warriors.
"!!"
"Damn it!"
"What the hell are those things?"
Seeing the "warriors" standing motionless in their path, Ophelia was stunned.
Then, as if she couldn't believe her eyes, she angrily yanked off her helmet and glared ahead with her silver eyes wide open.
Unfortunately, her gesture was pointless.
The helmet of her Judgment armor didn't obstruct her vision. On the contrary, wearing it actually enhanced her perception and eyesight to some degree. So even after taking it off, all she could see with her naked eyes were the same hundred or so bizarre "warriors" standing before them like the walking dead. They were naked, with only the shoddiest leather coverings stitched over a few vital areas.
Of course, calling them "warriors" might not be entirely accurate.
They were a group of naked women whose