As that was going on, something else was happening in a far-off place.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
The sounds that mimicked crisp autumn leaves resounded quietly under the boots of a tall man, who walked across a bloodstained land covered in roots and predatory plants, with the moon hanging high above his head.
The light of the artificial moon fell on him, exposing his figure as though he were caught under a spotlight.
A long, dark, tailored cloak with embroideries of thorny roses; a belt wrapped around his waist equipped with a variety of gardening tools; a black-beaked mask resembling that of a plague doctor's; and thick black gloves.
This was the Gardener of Roses.
And currently, he was out on a mission.
He walked through a field of corpses with his arms behind his back; his boots treading over their limbs that seemed to snap under his steps.
