Under the blood moon.
A young white-haired boy with a melancholic gaze stood alone at the top of the tower, gazing up at the splendid galaxy.
The evening wind blew past, ruffling his hair and turning the pages of the guidebook...
Even without knowing the astonishing developments within the dungeon, this scene alone was enough to draw attention.
But...
Harmonious God wasn't the most tactful, unexpectedly commenting: ["I have a feeling that you seem to enjoy this process quite a bit."]
["First you set the traps, then like a poet, you're writing poetry as they fall into the traps... Do you now feel elegant?"]
"Shh—stop talking."
Herbert gently shook his head, maintaining his carefully crafted pose, and replied internally with a tone full of melancholic flair:
"Listen, tonight's wind seems particularly noisy, as if mourning for the departure of those wretched souls."
Nenasha: ???
What nonsense?
What's going on?
["You..."]
