The Scavenger Ancestor let out a low, guttural growl that sounded like grinding metal. "You want our maps? You want the locations of the Rifts that have claimed the lives of thousands of our soldiers? You're not just a wolf, boy... you're a delusional suicide case."
"If you're so worried about my health, just give me the data and watch me fail," Ethan countered, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. "Unless, of course, you're afraid that I'll actually succeed where you've been failing for the last fifty years?"
The Deacon sat back, his eyes narrowing as he watched the Obsidian tier begin to fracture from within. The "United Front" they had built to trap Ethan was crumbling under the weight of his sheer audacity.
"Give him the coordinates," the Deacon commanded, his voice cold and final. "Let him have his maps. Let him see exactly where his grave is being dug."
