He had known Jax for years. Had sparred with him. Had drunk with him around countless campfires. The Butcher had a presence, a weight of menace that this pretender could never replicate even if he wore Jax's skin instead of merely his armor.
The capture had been easy.
The Dross had tried to fight, of course. They always tried to fight. But Flesh Awakening Warriors against a Bone Tempering Warrior was no contest at all. Lukaku had shattered their weapons with casual blows, broken bones with negligent strikes, killed most of them before they even understood what was happening.
He had kept a few alive.
For questioning.
Lukaku looked over to where these prisoners were right now.
Only three of them remained.
They sat against another Ancestor Pillar at the opposite edge of the camp from the women, their hands bound behind them with sinew cord, their ankles tied to prevent any attempt at escape. Not that they could escape in their current condition.
