In the east district, closer to the edge of the industrial slums that was still in devastation, a lone figure moved along the cracked pavement.
The morning light did little to warm the place. Smoke still clung to the air here, faint but stubborn, as if refusing to disperse even after three days.
His name was Rurik Hale, he was Hunter from the Blackthorn Lances guild. His partner had excused himself to the nearest public restroom ten minutes ago and Rurik who was impatient as always, decided to press ahead on his own.
His boots crunched over broken glass as he crossed into the shadow of an abandoned factory block.
It was here the battle had raged three days ago but the memory seemed burned into the very bones of the street.
A lot of walls from different buildings had been torn away and just leaving gaping wounds in those buildings. The metal frames of the factory doors that were still standing were bent and twisted like they had been struck by something enormous.
