The One Who Had Claimed His Life

"Zzzzt—"

The blazing blue current that flashed through the void did not look like the radiance of magic. It looked more like a clumsy stroke tearing through this bleak canvas—abrupt, grating, and carrying the acrid smell of scorched flesh.

A figure suddenly appeared beside Dago along with the sound.

The newcomer was a middle-aged man with thick brows and a high nose. His face was stiff as an iron plate dragged from an ice cellar, and the aura emanating from him was so heavy it made people struggle to breathe—it was the pressure of a Third-Ring Wizard, the natural, unreasonable oppression of the superior upon the inferior.

He stared closely at Gellman's miserable state on the ground. It was not the look one gave a fellow human, but the look one gave a precious piece of porcelain that had been damaged. The corner of his eye twitched violently several times.

"Ang Leo!!"

The name was forced through his clenched teeth with a bloody tang, as if he wanted to chew those words to pieces and swallow them together with that man's bone fragments before he could vent the rage in his heart.

He did not spare Dago even a second glance—perhaps, in his eyes, a still-standing, uninjured "survivor" like Dago was either an insignificant weed or an accomplice who had yet to reveal himself. Either way, he was not worth wasting precious time on.

His withered, eagle-claw-like hand swiftly grabbed Gellman, who was half-kneeling on the ground with his life or death unknown. He cast Dago a cold glance, devoid of warmth, carrying only the lofty indifference one held toward the life and death of an ant.

Then, he shot off in a certain direction with the force of thunder, vanishing without a trace in an instant. All that remained