Inside the False Contract Prison, there was no time.
Dragon Soaring World stood alone among endless bookshelves. Contract text floated in the air like countless eyes mocking him.
He tried to read the first contract.
It was a scroll written in Ancient Elvish on Moonlight Silk, every character giving off a gentle glow.
Dragon Soaring World had read only three lines when he felt his thoughts begin to twist.
He snapped his eyes shut and forced his attention away from the scroll. Cold sweat slid down his temple.
This was more than a trap hidden in words. Every contract was a living thing that could actively corrode the mind.
"What's wrong, oathbreaker?"
Dies Martin's voice echoed through the space, openly mocking him.
"Giving up already? You haven't even read a thousandth of them."
"Or do you regret it now? Kneel and beg me, and perhaps I'll turn you into a statue on my stairway. I'll leave your mind intact so you can behold my greatness forever."
Dragon Soaring World ignored him.
He sat down cross-legged and forced himself to calm down.
How could a warrior accustomed to charging into battle possibly beat an ancient Demon God who had wielded the Deception Authority for ten thousand years at a game of words?
Dies Martin's rule was simple: find the sole chance of survival, then tear it apart with his own hands.
Tear it apart.
Dragon Soaring World turned those words over in his mind.
He looked down at his hands.
After the Severance of his Godhead, he was terribly weak. Forget tearing apart contracts empowered by a god—even an ordinary sheet of parchment might be beyond him.
Then "tear it apart" had to mean something else.
Not brute force. Not trickery.
What else was there?
What did a warrior have besides