A dozen wizards obediently looked at the man before them, waiting for him to speak.
The rescue war was over.
They had successfully escaped from the nightmare-like Cursed Land and were now standing in the hall of a magic school.
The air around them was filled with dense magic elements, which slightly replenished their parched bodies.
The vast and spacious magic school exuded an unsettling aura, as if it had undergone tens of thousands of bombings.
What really made them nervous was the Lord in front of them.
A suit of golden armor, with intricate magic patterns spreading from the heart like blood vessels to the edges of the body, pulsing with each breath.
A pitch-black cloak draped around him like a lover.
He was adorned with numerous blessed weapons, a Holy Grail, necklaces, long blades, and more, looking like a moving treasure trove.
Lords capable of waging planar wars were all formidable figures to be revered.
