Among the onlookers, perhaps only the wizards of the Thorn Ring and the Progress Society remained silent, each shrouded in an inexplicable heaviness.
"All gifts from fate have their price clearly marked in secret."
Lintis's emerald eyes narrowed beneath his gray hair, his fingers gliding along the edge of the golden compass in a light rhythm, as though playing some cruel melody.
"Interesting, isn't it, Doru?"
He tilted his head.
"To witness a relatively powerful individual die in misfortune, then revel in heated discussion around the corpse—it truly is an eternal habit etched into the bloodline."
Lintis closed his eyes, the corners of his lips curving beautifully upward. He seemed to enjoy this feeling of controlling others' fates and emotions.
Pleasure.
Pure, condescending pleasure.
Doru, the man in black robes, did not respond. He knew Lintis's temperament well and had long anticipated the outcome of all this.
The muscles beneath his black robe tensed slightly as his gaze pierced through layer upon layer of heads and fixed on the figure in the distance.
Illusory splendor.
A deadly lure.
This was not an inheritance at all.
It was a carefully staged performance.
Lintis had never intended to truly bestow the inheritance Isidore had left behind in this southern land upon anyone. What he wanted was merely a game.
That young man named Dago was the only prey, and also the only actor.
An inexplicable, complicated sympathy rose in Doru's heart. Dago was destined to die beneath the gaze of countless people, either dimly or brilliantly.
Would I meet the same end?
Doru could not help recalling all the promises Lintis had made to him before, and his gaze lowered.
"Anyone in the arena could possibly kill Dago Heka."
"Who do you think he will ultimately die by the hand of?"