The five members of the Slave Trade Guild swallowed hard. The lumps in their throats felt dry and heavy, like stones lodged deep inside, refusing to move.
Cold sweat dripped down their cheeks, tracing shaky paths along their faces before falling to the ground below.
Their breathing was uneven, shallow, and ragged, each inhale scraping painfully against their lungs.
One of them opened his mouth to speak. No, to threaten him, that had been his intention.
Yet no words came out.
His lips trembled, parting uselessly as his gaze locked onto the silver-haired young man standing before them.
The Grim Reaper was nothing like any other awakener they had encountered.
He did not posture.
He did not hesitate.
He killed without regard for consequence, without fear of retaliation.
And now that their hideout had been discovered.
Their crimes were in the open.
So, did he even have the right to threaten him?
