African Theater, edge of the Sahara Desert.
Karim crouched on the sand, staring at the pale golden shield in the distance. The twelve scorpion tails behind him swayed slowly, their venomous stingers glinting coldly beneath the moonlight.
Hans sat beside him, tracing something in the sand with his finger. It was the 327th attack route he had calculated.
The images Martin had provided replayed continuously in his mind, matching the lines on the ground one by one.
"Three days from now," Hans said.
Karim nodded.
"Three days from now."
A low roar came from afar—the sound of Purgatory creatures, echoing from the depths of the desert.
Karim rose to his feet. The scorpion tails stopped swaying and all pointed toward the shield.
"They're waiting."
Hans stood as well, brushing the sand from his clothes.
"Waiting for what?"
Karim turned, his amber vertical pupils fixed on him.
"For you to finish calculating."
Hans froze for a moment, then smiled.
"I finished a long time ago."
Three hundred kilometers away, at the edge of Holy Light Bastion.
More than three thousand civilians were crammed onto the sand, awaiting an unknown fate.
The broken-winged angel was still standing there, blocking the guards.
A guard's light blade pressed against his chest, its tip piercing his skin as golden blood flowed out.
"Move aside," the guard said.
The broken-winged angel did not move.
"I said move aside."
He still did not move.
A flicker of killing intent flashed through the guard's eyes. He twisted his wrist and pushed the light blade forward. A Black Shadow emerged from the void, materializing behind the guard.
A white eye opened.
The blade swept past.
The guard's head flew into the air. His body remained standing for two seconds before collapsing.
Everyone froze.
The broken-winged angel looked at the