She approached and extended her hand. The emerald thorns reached toward the Werewolf, wrapping around its neck. The spikes penetrated the wounds Lance had inflicted, sucking away at the Werewolf's Life Force. No matter how much it struggled, the roots only tightened.
She intended to kill it slowly, letting it feel the passage of life, the despair of death closing in…
Grendel's expression beneath the mask was one of intoxication, lost in the ecstasy of revenge.
Lance did not move or speak. He just quietly watched.
He knew Grendel harbored a deep grudge against the Warwolf, and he had promised to help her avenge it.
But nothing could be more satisfying than avenging oneself by personally killing one's enemy.
The Werewolf, controlled entirely, was like a prisoner on the gallows, inching closer to death as the noose tightened.
It didn't die instantaneously only because Grendel was deliberately torturing it.
