"Ricky, hey, Ricky, look! Look over there… The Bulltors… John really did send them!!"
Elena's voice was strained, a mix of disbelief and sheer relief cutting through the roar of the battlefield. Since the very first moment Ricky and Elena had reached the southern territory, the two of them had been trapped in a suffocating, tight situation.
The journey itself had been a gruelling marathon. It had taken them eight hours of relentless sprinting to travel from Cissel and Luke's northern territory down to this godforsaken battlefield.
By the time they arrived, less than two hours had already passed since the start of the first wave. That delay was costly; the den had already ramped up its production cycles, unleashing the eleventh wave just as they crossed the border.
Their arrival was a race against time. They had barely scrambled into position before the next two-hour window closed, preventing the den from unleashing the twenty-first wave.
