The red storm broke an hour after the Warlord died.
The crimson clouds tore apart, letting pale gray daylight spill through. The rain slowed to a drizzle before stopping completely.
The monster horde was gone.
Without the Warlord commanding them, the remaining beasts had scattered into the wild within minutes. The ridge around the outpost was littered with corpses, but the immediate threat was over.
And the soldiers were losing their minds.
Holden was still sitting in the mud next to the Warlord's bisected body when the first wave came. A group of veterans jogged over from the wall with their rifles slung over their shoulders, looking at him with a mix of shock and total awe.
"That was a Rank 3," one of them said, like he needed to say it out loud to believe it.
"The kid just killed a Rank 3 beast."
"With a sword."
"A flaming sword."
