Prince Against Prince

Moonlight streamed through the window, blocked by only a few wooden slats, illuminating the image of the mercenary in his thirties before Tales: unshaven, indifferent-eyed, relaxed, with a trace of cold amusement at the corners of his mouth.

His leather armor was fastened tightly around his upper body. He had not removed it even when sleeping. Its surface was covered in mottled wear, clearly weathered through years of rushing from place to place with its owner. Various tools mercenaries carried with them were strapped to it: knives, scissors, bandages, hemostatic powder, rope, flint, tinder...

How had he lived all these years?

From prince to...

Tales silently gazed at him, at this hard-featured man who looked as though he had been through much.

"So it really is you?"

"Prince Morar?"

he asked mildly.

Silence.

Still, silence.

The man before him did not move.

It was as if this were nothing but a dream.

Under Hell Senses, the crude little hut, its floor covered in dust, looked cold and lifeless. Only Kuaishang's breathing from beyond the wall reminded Tales that everything before him was truly happening.

"Although I heard Grand Duke Perfect—rather, 'former' Grand Duke Perfect—say a long time ago that you wanted to become a mercenary..."

Tales spoke quietly. "But I truly never expected..."

Dean interrupted him.

"Moral Walton." The bald mercenary's expression did not change as he gently shook his head. "That name hasn't appeared in a very long time."

"Not since its owner died in an assassination six years ago."

"Why are you so fixated on a dead man?"

Tales took a deep breath.

"Black Path," the Prince said softly. "How did it feel there?"

"What?" Dean's brows furrowed.

Tales smiled.

The extraordinary experience of escaping Dragoncloud City through Shield District surged into his mind.

The wheelchair-bound veteran whose