Nolan stood outside his villa in Silver Blade City, hands clasped behind his back as a shimmering plume of smoke coiled upward like a dark serpent into the sky.
Within that haze, a vivid image of the battlefield shimmered—a ghostly projection of distant chaos unfolding as countless threads of mana converged and clashed.
The salty scent of ocean spray drifted faintly across the marble terrace, stirring the hem of his dark coat. His sharp gaze followed the shadowy figure of Yxthul gliding through the waves toward them, yet a peculiar silence surrounded the fishman now.
Nolan's brow arched slightly. That's odd. Fallen from the tenth stage to the seventh—and strangely quiet. It wasn't mere exhaustion; it felt as if some deeper, more sinister force had sapped him of his strength.
Is that how many students have been killed already? It seems he owes them this time.
