Eight frost longswords formed out of thin air, like the fangs of death, radiating a chill that could freeze the soul.
That chill crept into the nostrils of every Valeman, leaving them feeling as though they had plunged headfirst into an ice cellar.
But what filled them with the greatest despair was not the nine ghostlike Black-Cloaked Men.
It was that man.
The man who had been sitting in his chair as though watching a tedious play.
Lynn.
When he stood up.
When those two two-handed greatswords, each almost broader than a door, materialized in his hands, everyone understood.
This was the real monster.
The nine behind him were merely his minions.
He was the true Abyssal Behemoth, looking down upon all living things!
Dual-wielding two-handed greatswords?
And he could actually swing them?
Was he even fucking human?!
Against someone like that, they would probably be bludgeoned to death by those greatswords in the first exchange!
How the hell were they supposed to fight this?!
The greatsword in Ser Gretly Grafton's hand fell to the ground with a clang.
His wrinkled old face had lost every trace of color, leaving only an ashen despair.
Quick-witted as he was, he had already recalled those ancient legends.
He remembered the mysterious beings who had wielded frost weapons during the War for the Dawn.
So... the legends were all true.
Today, they had made an enemy of a living legend.
"Do... do we still fight?"
Ser Marq Arryn's voice shook uncontrollably.
His gaze passed over the knights lying on the ground, their fates unknown, before finally settling on Bronze Yohn.
Bronze Yohn did not answer.
The hand clamped around his throat was like an immovable iceberg.
No matter how he struggled, he could not shift it an inch.
He could feel his life