On the desolate plain.
Amid the howling cold wind.
Upon the thick snow.
Two tall, upright figures had already been standing there for quite some time.
They were the Lord of the Dead—Myrkul—and the God of Tyranny—Bane.
The one they were waiting for was the Lord of Murder—Bhaal.
Today was the day the three of them gathered together at regular intervals.
Yet the appointed time had already passed by a little.
Even if it was not by much.
This situation still made Myrkul instinctively displeased.
Beside him, Bane wore the same look of disgust.
However, unlike Myrkul, he also felt a trace of tension in his heart.
He had a rather bad feeling about this.
"Let's wait a little longer."
"If he still doesn't come, we'll investigate what happened to him."
Myrkul voiced no objection to that suggestion and answered briskly:
"Fine."
However, the moment his words fell.
Another voice appeared out of thin air and replied:
"There's no need for that trouble. We've already brought him here."
Myrkul and Bane's expressions changed at once.
As the voice appeared, one figure after another emerged as well.
At their head was Tyr, the God of Justice—the one who had spoken. In his hand, he carried none other than Bhaal.
Only, Bhaal no longer possessed his usual dominance and majesty.
He had already become a silent corpse.
After suffering repeated heavy blows.
Drops of scarlet blood still slowly flowed through the gaps in his badly shattered armor.
Staining the pure white snow with traces of scarlet...
Faced with this sight.
Neither Myrkul nor Bane hesitated. Their figures immediately fled in opposite directions.
No needless exchange was required.
Upon seeing Bhaal's miserable state.
They immediately understood the determination of those who had come.
The resolve to cut them down without hesitation...
Having judged