The morning sun beat down on the training grounds, but unlike a month ago, the demons standing in formation weren't gaunt or shaking from hunger. Their muscles were filling out, their skin had regained its natural sheen, and their eyes held the sharp focus of predators.
But there was a problem.
CRACK.
A sharp, splintering sound echoed across the field.
Leon watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, as a young demon sprawled into the dirt, clutching a bruised arm. Standing over him was Gorran, holding a massive wooden club.
On the ground lay the remains of a shield—shattered into jagged pieces of rusted iron.
"Pathetic!" Gorran roared, tossing the club aside. "You call that a defense? A stiff breeze would have punched through that guard!"
The young demon scrambled up, flushing with embarrassment. "It… it wasn't me, Commander! The shield just—"
