Ethan immediately caught the contempt and mockery dripping from Zael's words.
In the midst of such a bloody battle, for a Lord to remain in that state—clean and immaculate—was the kind of sight that naturally stirred disgust in a man like Zael.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Ethan's mouth, his gaze gliding over his own armor, a true masterpiece forged in the days of the mythical age.
Not a single drop of blood stained the gleaming metal, as if the plates themselves repelled all the grime of the battlefield.
His eyes rose once more to Zael, while his hand rested, calm and steady, on the ornate hilt of the God Slayer sword.
"Lord Zael, I've heard you're a man averse to the death of ordinary citizens," Ethan said, his gaze slowly sweeping over the army positioned behind his opponent.
Forty thousand soldiers, most still hidden within the forest's shadowy depths, only the glint of metallic silhouettes betraying their presence among the twisted trees.
