The Vanguard's staging camp offered no reprieve for Sunny's agonizing migraine.
He was currently sitting perfectly rigid upon his spine-throne, entirely consumed by a profound, civilian exhaustion. He explicitly desired nothing more than to seal his pavilion's heavy obsidian doors, collapse onto his crude cot, and sleep until the entire demonic crusade was over.
His uncultivated muscles ached from the constant, unnatural tension required to project his terrifying, aristocratic posture.
Before he could even close his glowing crimson eyes, the perimeter blood-wards flared with a sickening, localized pulse of dark Qi.
Quartermaster Jin was kneeling directly outside the pavilion, his forehead grinding into the toxic ash. Jin was vibrating with an intense, mortal dread. He explicitly knew that interrupting the Supreme Flesh-Crafter during his isolation was a crime typically punished by immediate, agonizing vivisection.
