Mitchelle floated within the vast expanse of space, her figure suspended effortlessly amid the cosmic chaos. Her gaze rested on the man drifting beside her, she remembered him all too well. The Pervy Sage. Azarion StarWeaver. The Eclipsian. A man as gifted as he was insufferable.
"Don't you have any Angel to battle or whatever?" Mitchelle asked, her blue eyes narrowing slightly as she regarded the man who seemed more captivated by her presence than the galactical war unfolding around them.
"Well," the Pervy Sage replied, stroking his long white beard with a motion that was meant to appear sagely but only made him seem more theatrical, "these eleven-winged pigeons are too strong. We need to battle them in pairs, just as everyone else is doing." His tone exuded the calm wisdom and serenity he was famous for, even though his intentions were anything but pure.
