The journey back to the Western territories was nothing short of a living nightmare.
The surviving hyena mercenaries did not merely run; they fled as if the god of death himself was breathing down their necks. They sprinted through the dense, unforgiving forests for three days and three nights, their lungs burning, their muscles screaming in absolute agony. They barely stopped to drink, and they certainly did not stop to sleep. How could they? Every single time they closed their eyes, all they could see was the agonizing, horrific death of that Vulture tribesman in the cave. They could still hear his bones cracking, his veins bulging, his final, desperate screams echoing in their ears.
