"The Spirit King… will never let you live."
"Kill me, and the Spirit Tribe will haunt your every dream—you'll never sleep peacefully again!"
Preston clutched his mangled throat, blood still gushing despite his grip.
Blank ignored his curses. The true damage bleed had stacked past 100,000 per second. Even with his boosted HP, there was no surviving that.
She turned back to the battlefield—now cratered like the moon—and muttered to herself, "Mages… all about that AoE carnage."
"But close combat? Give me an opening, and I'll still win."
Her voice wasn't fully confident, but as a Bruce Family heir, she couldn't back down. She wasn't just a pretty accessory—never had been.
"Not bad. I respect that. Believe in yourself. You've got what it takes to win in close quarters," Orson teased, clearly implying more than just fighting.
