The Reavers followed Ludwig with a zeal that surpassed mere instinct. It was not hunger. It was not rage. It was something else entirely. Something more primal, more orchestrated. A puppeted obsession. They tore through the terrain of the Bastos March in erratic patterns—some running upright on two legs, others dropping low to sprint on all fours, their claws raking the blackened soil. Some even soared briefly above the tree line, their twisted wings catching moonlight like diseased banners in the night.
And yet, Ludwig was faster.
Chains whipped forward like lashing serpents, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, Ludwig propelled himself ahead with brutal speed, using the force to swing himself tree to tree, outpacing the tide behind him. The air screamed around him, and the world became a blur of twisted trees, shattered stone, and crimson sky.
