Nathan slowly approached, his sword still humming with residual dark energy, eyes like chips of ice.
"You're not going anywhere," he said coldly.
Logan clutched his bloodied hand, crimson streaming between his fingers as he gritted his teeth against the sharp sting. The pain was undeniable, yet he bore it with a stoicism that surprised Nathan.
Despite the gruesome injury, Logan remained composed—his breathing steady, his eyes unshaken. He wasn't just enduring the pain; he was mastering it. It was impressive, even by Nathan's standards.
This wasn't some green recruit or clumsy noble child pretending to be brave. Logan was the real deal—strong, disciplined, and calm under pressure. Nathan hadn't expected any less. After all, Logan had been one of the so-called "Heroes" summoned by the Light Empire—the second wave, trained and groomed to be weapons.
