I didn't draw Oathstorm. I didn't even shift my feet from the ash-dusted gravel trail.
Instead, I simply crossed my arms over my high-collared dark tunic, stepping half a pace backward into the shadowed overhang of a craggy boulder to give the captain room to maneuver.
Let's see what a veteran frontier officer is actually made of, I thought, my eyes narrowing as my passive [Combat Analysis] subtly activated, framing the captain and the approaching abomination in faint, diagnostic overlays.
Before the planar gates tore open and the sky turned to blood, standard garrison captains were mostly seasoned soldiers who dealt with minor monster culls, bandit suppression, or tax escort duties.
But months of surviving on the front lines against true demonic incursions meant those who were still breathing had either adapted through brutal trial by fire or had been buried in mass graves.
