Seeing that none of them intended to speak, Higashino Makoto sighed.
It was not the sigh of a victor, but the helplessness of watching insects with their wings torn off still struggle on the ground, trying to take a bite out of him.
"I thought the gap in our strength was obvious enough."
He stood at the center of the platform, his silver-white hair perfectly undisturbed even beneath the moonlight, not a drop of blood staining his dark robe—
In fact, he had not bled at all, nor had he made anyone else bleed.
He had merely used just the right amount of force to render every Black Scripture member who charged at him incapable of fighting.
Broken bones. Dislocated joints. Concussions.
No fatal wounds, no severed limbs, no blood and flesh flying everywhere.
It was not mercy. There was simply no need.
In his backyard, aside from flowers already infested with bugs or rotted by disease, not worth the effort, every flower had value.
The Black Scripture was humanity's strongest spear, a barrier protecting humans from demi-humans and heteromorphic races.
If he crippled them, who would guard against those demi-humans and heteromorphic races?
Would he have to do it himself?
So, he had merely let them "rest" for a while.
The First Seat knelt on one knee amid the rubble, his broken spear planted in the ground to support his swaying body.
His magic mask had shattered halfway during the battle, exposing half of a youthful, pale face.
Long black hair hung messily over his shoulders, and his red eyes were bloodshot.
The Eighth Seat crawled out from a pile of rubble by the rock wall. Both massive shields were covered in cracks, while his right arm hung at an unnatural angle by his side—dislocated.
Edgar, the Ninth Seat,