One by one, the Nightwraiths melted into the ambient mana as they activated their invisibility. And like before, the air temperature plummeted, frost creeping up the edges of the bookshelves.
Percival stood perfectly still, War-Scythe one hand, his glowing blue eyes counting the Wraiths as they appeared and disappeared.
Thirty. There were roughly thirty of them according to his estimate. With 45 Summon Spaces in his arsenal, he had more than enough to house all these green devils.
His Mana was completely full. His Constitution sat at an iron-clad 1,240, while his Charisma—which measured aura, willpower and leadership—towered at 1,375.
These were numbers that shouldn't belong to anyone anywhere near his current level, but they were the blessings that followed him from his last life.
Percival hadn't lied. He actually desperately needed the EXP from killing them to reach his Level 50 threshold, but this was an unprecedented opportunity.
