The One Who Carries Fire for the Masses

Angron was in high spirits, and considering he had waited a full three years, He Shenyan simply let him be—holding it in for three whole years was truly torture for someone who craved battle every waking moment.

"Of course I know how sharp your axe is. Have you forgotten? I made it with my own hands."

Shaking his head, the Mage raised a finger. "Don't get too excited, my friend. I know how much you hate having nothing to do, but some things have to wait."

"I've already waited three years."

Angron rose from his chair, grinning as he stretched. His pauldrons clashed, iron scraping against iron, accompanied by his low laughter.

"Seeing you here makes me sincerely happy. Not only because you're safe and sound, my friend."

The Lord of the Red Sands said with utter sincerity, "But also because I know my wait is over—during these three years, the Anger in my heart has not stopped for a single day. I cannot forget what happened to Givadoron. Those filthy things must pay for it."

The more he spoke, the more excited he became. The outward manifestation of his emotions even sent a deep crimson mist surging up behind him like a frenzied tide of blood. Clearly, he had already become aware of his own nature, and could now use it to influence the real universe.

The Mage looked toward the suit of armor he had made for him, gazing at the blood aura coiling around it, and abruptly smiled—no, perhaps he had to take some of the credit himself as well.

Only, was that a good thing or a bad thing?

For the time being, he had no answer, but he trusted Angron's will. That was simply the kind of man he was: resolute, unwavering, unshakable. If only