"Henry, Frederick, Joe—you'll attack the mutated tree from the front. Be careful not to injure the man inside it. Try to sever its roots and immobilize it."
The order left my lips coldly, decisively, without room for argument. This was not a request. It was a command.
"What? Boss, are we saving the guy?"
Frederick was the first to react, his voice sharp with disbelief as he turned halfway toward me, rocky armor already beginning to form around his limbs.
Of course, he would ask.
After all, I—Cassel Zancroft—was not known for mercy. I wasn't a hero who rushed to save every unfortunate soul trapped by fate. I didn't waste strength on strangers, nor did I believe in pointless compassion.
Yet here we were.
But who said I wanted to save that man?
The answer was simple—and irritatingly unavoidable.
Rosalia.
