While the front lines became a meat grinder of divine steel and demonic blood, Mordecai Vrael was fighting a different kind of war, a desperate, sweaty, terrified scramble for relevance.
He fought somewhere in the secondary rear formation, and frankly, he fought badly. If anyone had asked him honestly how he was doing, he would have admitted he was one bad swing away from becoming a stain on the cobblestones.
'Please work, please work, please God, just let something good come out of this stupid system,' Mordecai screamed internally.
His hands were shaking so violently he could barely maintain the magical focus required to interface with the Infinite Gacha System. The air around him smelled of sulfur and panic.
"Come on! Give me something! Anything!" he shrieked, his voice cracking as an Aethelgard crossbow bolt whistled past his ear, embedding itself in the stone with a deadly thunk.
