Aside from Carl Thompson, the only real threat left had been Asher.
And now he was down too.
In the original story, Asher was Carl's right-hand man—his enforcer, the one who turned the tide when things got dicey.
But he'd just been beaten into the ground by me.
Carl Thompson was panicking.
'Yeah, panic, you bastard.'
I couldn't help the grin spreading across my face—bloody, exhausted, but victorious.
And right on cue, Trent stirred and joined our formation, his eyes widening as he took in the battlefield.
"Stop them… I said stop them!!" Carl screamed, voice cracking as he roared at the remnants of his team.
But his words rang hollow now.
Most of his subordinates were already out cold—sprawled on the ground, groaning, unconscious, or too injured to stand. Only two or three were still on their feet, and even they looked too shaken to fight.
One took a step forward—then took two back instead.
Even they knew it.
They couldn't stop us.
They had lost.
