"I think I can state my terms now."
The tension was razor-sharp, and the atmosphere at the scene was oppressive and solemn.
Yet that did not stop Chrollo from chatting and laughing calmly within it. He even had the mood to tease Coleman. "What kind of outfit is that?"
As he sized up the half-black, half-white Coleman, a guess formed in his mind.
Had the curse finally erupted?
But it looked like things were going fairly well?
Chrollo noticed that the man was still lucid, even though his life force was plummeting.
"Finally going to court death?" After observing him for a moment, he understood.
The man could not wait any longer. He wanted to drag out whatever was trying to erase his existence.
"Coleman, you really are a sorry sight."
How had a perfectly good killer who lived for entertainment ended up like this?
But that was not important.
A dark glint flashed through Chrollo's eyes. Looking at the man who had not answered him, he said in a low voice, "Save the Phantom Troupe."
Coleman cracked his neck and drew back the black flames burning around them.
He looked Nobunaga up and down as the latter held his younger brother, then sneered. "This? You expect me to save you over this?"
His eyes were scarlet, like those of a bloodthirsty beast.
Madness and greed intertwined in his pupils, utterly chilling.
It was as though he stood on the brink of losing control.
The next second, he might slaughter everyone present.
Nobunaga instinctively took a step back, while Feitan watched him like a hawk at his side.
They knew this man. No—anyone who made a living in the Underworld knew this white devotee.
Naturally, they also knew the other side of that title.
The mad killer.
No one dared