"What do you take life for?"
Roland rebuked them solemnly.
His expression was so earnest and sincere that he looked like a great philanthropist who cherished life.
Carissa looked at Roland, studying his appearance.
Clothes so immaculate that not a speck of blood had touched them, and twin swords as spotless as new, more like works of art than weapons for killing enemies.
Yet despite how utterly out of place he looked on this scorched earth, thick with the foul smell of burning, several decisive abnormalities were still apparent-
He stood in a pool of blood deep enough to cover his feet, yet showed no sign of sinking into it.
A faint curve lingered at the corners of his mouth.
Clearly, it was the afterglow of his earlier, excessively heightened excitement.
And there was the mountain of corpses and sea of blood spreading behind him in a fan, with his position as its pivot.
Carissa's expression grew darker and darker, her gaze increasingly frightening.
Although she, too, was a tyrant who could steel herself to behead her own mother and sisters, she would not deliberately put on an innocent face.
Britain's greater good was her reason for choosing to shoulder these sins, but that did not change the nature of those deeds.
Normally, Carissa never had a kind word for such a rotten bastard, and even felt disgust toward them, yet she could not feel that way about Roland now.
The reason probably lay in that aura of his.
As the person in the coalition who had spent the most time in contact with him and fought him the longest, she had been left with an extremely deep impression of the distance surrounding Roland, so transcendent that he seemed free of gravity's bonds.
He was like a river of stars