The Grim Lord took note of the flicker of unease on Alex's face.
A deep, guttural chuckle rumbled from its skeletal throat before it finally spoke:
"Recognize them?"
Its voice was like a death rattle—slow, deliberate, filled with dark amusement.
"These are the players whose lives you've stolen."
Alex's expression remained cold, but his fingers tightened slightly around his sword.
His eyes flicked over the undead players crawling free from the lava-cracked earth—their empty gazes locked onto him, their once-living bodies twisted into grotesque imitations of their former selves.
But then—
He frowned.
"So?" he asked, voice unwavering. "You think this makes a difference?"
The Grim Lord tilted its head, chains clinking as it shifted.
"We'll see, won't we... human?"
A test, then.
Alex's thoughts moved fast.
Did the Grim Lord think he'd hesitate?
That he'd feel guilt?
That the sight of these former enemies—now puppets of undeath—would make him falter?
