Alejandro did not know how to describe the scene before him.
But of one thing, he could be certain.
Every time he looked at Mordren Girardet, he felt a deep, terrifying echo from some faraway place.
Over those fifteen minutes, he had wanted countless times to turn his gun and kill this blasphemous monster. His reason and his training could not tolerate such an existence standing at his side. But in the end, he held back.
The mission was what mattered most right now.
Compared with what Mordren Girardet had become, the Orcs almost seemed amiable.
Dark-red blood churned without end, pale human faces and incomplete corpses rising and sinking within it. The long river of blood heaved constantly, transforming into man-eating beasts or forces powerful enough to make the earth tremble. The way it slaughtered the Orcs was very simple, yet it sent a chill down the spine.
The blood wrapped around their bodies, stabbing deep in from the surface of their skin, and when it withdrew, nothing was left where they had stood.
The Orc Warlord looked so furious it was nearly mad. More than once, it tried to close in on Mordren and Alejandro, but not once did it succeed. The River of Blood seemed able to predict its every move, always trapping it before it could move.
A layer of green light glowed over its body. This seemed to be why it had not been swallowed by the River of Blood. But even if it could still hold on, it no longer mattered.
Aside from it, all the Orcs were dead.
Mordren Girardet's voice came from Alejandro's side, blurred and very soft. Yet the Crimson Fist still caught it through the howl of the snowstorm.
"Three minutes left," the thing that had once been a Raven