Rhys sat inside a ruined building, its crystalline walls casting fractured, starlit patterns on the floor.
He was deep in concentration, his mind a whirlwind of concepts and principles. He was developing a structure for a new skill.
Outside, his army moved with the purpose he gave them.
He had allowed them to hunt on their own, dividing his hundreds of Vanguards into small, efficient squads of twenty-one.
Twenty to attack, and one designated collector, tasked with gathering the ashes of slain enemies so he could endlessly replenish his forces.
The hunt proved to be a massive success. The number of his Vanguards swelled, their ranks growing with every fallen Sentinel.
The floating island was being systematically cleansed, its guardians reduced to fuel for his burgeoning legion.
[Your summons have been killed…]
Rhys paused, his mental blueprint for the new skill shattering. The connection he shared with his marionettes was absolute.
He could feel their death instantly.
