Fate Is Like a Poem

Tales stared incredulously at Falkenhaus's retreating back, listening as the sound of his cane gradually faded until it was barely audible.

After a while, the Prince finally exhaled indignantly.

"Yordel, do you know that man?"

Tales picked up the ancient Imperial sword Cyril had left behind, still digesting the shock of what had just happened.

A faint voice came from the air behind him:

"Not well."

"Not well?" Tales furrowed his brows slightly.

The young man felt the weight of The Watcher as he slowly drew its gleaming blade.

Its hilt was exceptionally long, allowing it to be gripped with both hands and wielded like a greatsword or even a spear.

It was slightly lighter than Ricky's Eternal Truth, yet its center of gravity was just as perfectly balanced.

It was a rare and excellent sword.

But why...

Was it merely to show the outside world that the Duke of the Western Desolation had given the Prince a fine sword?

"Damn Falkenhaus."

Tales sighed as he looked at the black gem set in the center of the crossguard. It was noticeably more understated than Eternal Truth.

"Do you believe what he said?"

Tales flourished the long-hilted sword in his hand, slowly familiarizing himself with the new weapon.

The Masked Guard's voice echoed faintly:

"What about you?"

The Watcher paused in midair.

Tales drew a deep breath and slowly returned the sword to its sheath.

Falkenhaus.

"I always thought he was just an elite mob."

Tales gazed down at Bladefang Camp from the window, his eyes distant.

"But in the end..."

Tales said absently:

"He was a boss."

The room fell silent for a moment.

"I don't understand."

Tales placed the longsword on the table, shook his head, and came back to himself.

"Nothing. It's just a vulgar expression I learned