Kyle's figure flickered in and out of sight.
His white eyes occasionally opened, glanced down at the crowd, then closed again. He had been searching for someone—the person who had saved him.
Where are you? he wondered.
Layla stood there, bathed in warm light. The eye on the back of her hand turned as it watched the injured people below, those who were still in pain.
Wait a little longer. Wait until I come down.
Karim crouched on the other side of the platform, his scorpion tail slowly swaying. He looked at those who, like him, had emerged from the desert—those who had lost their homeland.
"Desert." His voice was like sandpaper. "I'll guard it for you."
Numbers flashed in Hans's eyes, too quickly to make out.
He was calculating—calculating the sincerity of the people before him, the rate at which Holy Light Bastion's energy was declining, the attack routes three months from now, the minimum casualties, and the greatest possible results.
"I won't let your applause down. Three hundred and twenty-seven plans," he muttered to himself. "There'll always be one that can win."
Martin stood at the far right, looking at the demon hunters, the survivors, and the ordinary people. Countless images flickered across the bone spikes behind him—possible deaths on future battlefields—but he did not regret his choice.
"I'll make sure you win," he said in a low voice.
The applause continued.
Hundreds of thousands of people were still clapping.
The applause traveled across the square, through the streets, past the ruins, and through the gaps of air-raid shelters, reaching the ears of every person still alive.
In the ruins of Chicago, several people huddled together in a basement. They heard Wu Heng's speech over the radio, followed by endless applause.
"Demon Hunter Knights..." an old man murmured.