The sea breeze was briny and carried the lingering stench of gunpowder, a smell that burrowed straight into the lungs.
The heavy transport ship, the Sea Guardian, sliced through the waves.
There were no cheers of survival on the deck.
Only a silence so heavy it felt frozen.
Compared to the high spirits and boisterous noise—almost like they were on a school trip—when they set out, the group was now less than half its original size.
The empty spots had already become cold, black-and-white photos on the Secret Realm's roster.
Han Feng, having changed into a clean set of combat fatigues, walked slowly from the cabin door onto the deck, clutching half a High-Energy Compression Rod.
The crowd, which had been gathered in twos and threes talking in low voices, seemed to freeze as if someone had pressed a pause button the moment he stepped onto the deck.
WHOOSH.
No command was given.
There was no rehearsal.
