Steffan, save me
"Steffan, save me."
Lucas's hoarse cry echoed through the battered martial arts arena, filled with desperation and humiliation.
The night wind swept through the ruined grounds of the Lockheart Martial Arts Hall, carrying the thick scent of blood through the air. Broken tiles crunched beneath countless feet. Cracks spread across the arena floor like spiderwebs, stained dark crimson beneath the cold moonlight.
The man called Steffan merely cast a cold glance at him.
That single glance felt colder than winter frost.
Lucas's body trembled uncontrollably. His face instantly paled as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over him. Even with several ribs broken and blood soaking his clothes, he still forced himself to struggle upright from the ground.
As a member of the Obsidian Wing organization, lying there like a dying stray dog in front of so many Old Martial Arts experts was a disgrace he could not accept.
