Zion didn't stop.
She ran for three full days.
The only thing that mattered was the red counter flickering in her retina: three hundred kilometers, two hundred, one hundred.
The forced march was brutal.
She ignored the exhaustion, pumping SSS-Rank stamina into the two hundred Unchained soldiers running behind her.
They were ghosts, powered by her black magic, their eyes bloodshot, their legs moving only because the system buff demanded it.
Mila, the eight-year-old girl, clung to Zion's armored back.
Her small, thin arms were locked around Zion's neck, a weight Zion barely registered, but a weight that never let her forget the 55% humanity she carried.
They cleared the final dense stretch of northern pine woods.
The freezing air snapped against Zion's exposed face, but she didn't feel the cold. She felt the silence.
She stopped instantly.
The two hundred Unchained soldiers stumbled into the clearing, collapsing onto the wet dirt like sacks of heavy stones.
