The group began to gather their things, the mercenaries shifting under the weight of sacks already stuffed with chunks of violet-black mythril. The air was still heavy with the stink of ichor, but the sense of urgency to leave the mine pressed on all of them.
Trafalgar's voice cut across the clamor, sharp and cold. "Wait."
Everyone froze. Leon turned toward him, wary, his lips parting as if to protest—but the weight of Trafalgar's gaze silenced him before a word escaped.
Trafalgar pointed toward the collapsed body near the entrance: the mercenary he had killed with Widow's Whisper. The corpse lay still, eyes glassy, throat pierced clean through.
"That man," Trafalgar said, his tone steady. "His body leaves this mine. And it will reach his family. You'll make sure of it."
The mercenaries stiffened. One of them shifted uncomfortably. "Y-You want us to… carry him?"
