Behind the armed gunman stood an elven priest, her long silver hair tied in a neat braid that still swayed gently with each movement. She clutched a wooden staff that curled with natural patterns, faint green light pulsing from the vines wrapped around it. On the other side towered a heavily armored tank — a mountain of metal.
He wore pure titanium from head to toe, the polished surface reflecting even the dim light of the alley. His shield and sword matched the same imposing design, both marked with scratches from battles survived rather than lost.
They looked like the kind of naive but skilled elite adventurers who had just wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.
"What the…?" The gunman's eyes swept the area, taking in the rusted cages stacked against the walls and the hunched figures inside. The smell of filth and dried blood made the truth obvious — this was a slave hub.
