Tyre! (20)

In Alan's eyes, they still had one last chance.

It barely counted as a chance. It was the final arrow in the Quiver of Fate.

If they turned slightly north and skirted the edge of Serizawa Town outside the city, perhaps they could charge into the distant wasteland.

Of course, the wasteland might mean death as well. That region had become deadly territory due to the Orks' encirclement, but that was a problem for later. They would carve out their own fate.

Besides, Alan still had one last trump card. Even if they ran into the Orks, it would not necessarily be a dead end.

Though he did not want his comrades to see that outcome.

If they entered the eastern wasteland, then no matter what the enemy was, it should not keep pursuing them.

As long as they crossed a stream called Frog Gully, they could escape alive and freely walk toward death, rather than being driven into hell by a pack of cursed killers.

But Frog Gully was still far away.

Keeping moving the whole way would be no easy task. A journey like this was usually broken into four or five stretches, with perhaps some sleep and food in between to restore their strength.

If they could reach their destination without stopping, it would surely be an achievement of endurance worthy of poets' praise.

Assuming any poets were still alive.

Alan gripped the handrail tightly and discussed it with Lorne and Brom.

All three of their voices had long since turned hoarse from loudly cursing traitors during the vicious battle.

Brom was in terrible shape.

His face was bloodless, and his eyes were as dim as dirty ice, as though the thread of his life was slowly being worn through.

"Let's do it."

he said.

"Frog Gully.