Clown commanded the shadow slaves to attack Greg, choosing to remain at the rear, a silent spectator. He had no intention of getting his hands dirty—at least, not yet. This was a test, a way to gauge Greg's abilities from a distance. And if the boy happened to die under the weight of over a thousand shadow slaves and fifty twisted variants? Even better. That kind of force wasn't insignificant by any stretch. It had buried entire guilds before.
But Greg remained calm—unshaken. His expression was unreadable, eyes glowing faintly with restrained anticipation. In truth, he wasn't bothered by the overwhelming numbers. If anything, he welcomed it.
To him, the horde of shadow slaves was a gift, a divine offering. Each one was an opportunity to accelerate his assimilation with the Law of Darkness, and he was eager to harvest every drop of value they offered.
"Guess I should call in some help," Greg muttered under his breath, his voice low and casual.
