Algernon lowered his head and looked at the mirror-smooth metal floor beneath his feet.
It reflected a face etched with exhaustion and struggle.
Zong Shen's words were like an icy iron hammer, striking again and again against the fortress of belief within him that had long been riddled with cracks.
Yes, the kingdom had already rotted away.
King Guser had been murdered, while the princes, princesses, and grand dukes were busy carving up territory.
All of them were waiting to feast on the decaying corpse called Avalon.
Meanwhile, the border legion stood isolated far from home. Supplies came and went, reinforcements arrived painfully late—what, exactly, were they defending with their blood and lives?
He raised his head, his gray-blue eyes turning toward Zong Shen.
The bloodshot humiliation in them had gradually faded, replaced by the clarity that came after surviving a catastrophe.
He glanced at Freya beside him. The blood on the female mage's robes had dried, but her eyes no longer held the same desperation and conflict as before. There was only the calm of resignation.
Then Algernon looked at Gordon.
The legendary warrior renowned for his berserk strength was no longer roaring. The muscles in his rugged face were taut.
Yet the flare of his nostrils had eased considerably.
Before, he had looked like a savage magical beast.
Alina pressed her lips together tightly, thought glimmering in her ice-blue eyes.
She was weighing and evaluating her options.
As for Morris, he remained silent like a stone statue.
But the movement of his eyes showed that he was rapidly calculating the pros and cons.
In the end, Algernon's gaze returned to Zong Shen.
He looked at this young yet unfathomable man, then at the silent but still imposing Black-Winged Tyrant behind him.
This human could subdue a legendary dragon,