Ahhhh! Ahhhh!
Two agonized screams ripped through the street, cutting through the chaos like knives. The crowd's attention snapped to the left, momentarily pulling their gaze from the carnage unfolding before them.
Dragged across the cobblestones were the Level 12 Archers, their limbs mangled, bones twisted and shattered.
Their jaws were dislocated under the immense force of the hooded figures' attacks. Blood and grit smeared their faces as they groaned in excruciating pain.
The two hooded figures who had returned to finish the job left behind a crimson trail, casually tossing the injured archers at Thoren's feet as if they were nothing more than broken logs.
Thoren's eyes remained cold and indifferent, scanning the battlefield ahead. He did not glance at the mangled bodies, nor did he react to their groans. His focus was absolute, on the remaining guild members.
He had chosen to employ his high-level undead servants to crush any opposition.
