Time seemed to freeze around Ricky.
The blood coating his hand was still warm—thick, rich, and unnervingly tender. It clung to his skin like a cruel memory, refusing to fade.
Ricky slowly raised his hand, his cold, steely eyes locked onto the crimson smear as if trying to sear its image into his soul.
A battlefield was not a place for sentiment. This was a truth carved into his bones, but even so… this moment served as a brutal reminder. One slip. One hesitation. And this could be him—lifeless, cold, forgotten.
The lifeless body of the undead princess at his feet hadn't even cooled yet, her death a brutal echo of that truth.
But his attention was no longer on her.
His gaze had already shifted—to her.
The one who had just appeared.
The number bloomed in his mind, unbidden.
Twenty-nine.
It struck him as if someone had whispered it directly into his thoughts.
