"Let us join forces, Magus." The White Wing Duke straightened up and extended an invitation with unprecedented sincerity. "On behalf of the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors, I propose an unprecedented cooperation to the Clock Tower—let us cast aside our tedious hatred. In order to 'survive,' we need to join forces."
Bartholomew Lorelei did not answer at once.
She stared at the White Wing Duke's arm hidden beneath his sleeve, frantically calculating the threat level and strength of that Lord.
If that "Lord" was the true god, possessing divine power that could instantly erase everything and was omniscient and omnipotent, then what right did a Dead Apostle of the White Wing Duke's caliber have to stand here and bargain with her?
Since the White Wing Duke had been able to barely survive before that Noble Phantasm embodying the concept of death, even briefly resisting through his immense vitality, did that mean the so-called "Lord" had not truly descended in person, but was merely an incarnation possessing a fraction of His power?
Or perhaps He was not the "Lord" at all, but merely an extraordinarily powerful agent chosen by the Lord and granted the Lord's power?
If so, then perhaps gathering all their strength truly gave them a chance?
She was tempted.
However, as the head of the Bartholomew family, she could not rashly agree to such a request to seek the tiger's skin based on a few words alone. Or rather, until the White Wing Duke offered sufficiently enticing benefits and a feasible plan, she would never yield.
"Cooperation?" Lorelei slowly lowered the saber in her hand, her voice still cold and sharp. "How do you propose we cooperate? With your battered body, forget killing that one—even if I attacked you right now, you wouldn't survive."
"South America!" The White Wing