By the time Damien and Lyone reached Greshan's north section, the city's illusion of neutrality had burned away.
There was no chaos. No barking of orders from confused guards.
Instead—structure. And Order.
Swift, clean movements formed battle formations along the perimeter roads and alleys closest to the open grasslands north of the city.
Wards were being carved into stone with glowing chisels. Magic circles flared to life across rooftops, and summoned creatures—some ghostly, some scaled and snarling—waited in crouched silence.
Every individual here, whether Mercenary, Dunter, Mage, or Swordsman, moved like they knew exactly what to do. There were no matching uniforms. No banners.
Just intent.
Just survival.
Damien slowed near the outer ring, his eyes scanning the makeshift defensive line as Lyone stopped beside him, wide-eyed.
"Who's coordinating this?" Lyone asked.
"No one," Damien said. "And everyone."
