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(Spade POV)
I'm standing at the entrance of my office. My head is low, and my eyes are scanning the wound on my right palm.
My palm is shredded, blood and blisters caused by the impact of the last wind arrow he shot before he collapsed. I caught it, barely..
It was fast, very fast. That speed.. it's not something a third circle should possess.
I didn't.. I didn't plan to fight seriously at all. He triggered something in me.. something that I've been trying to digest for so long.
Those flames of his. They're just like his.. like that man. The lost, but possibly dead Flameworth.. Calesandar..
I shouldn't have.. I shouldn't have let my emotions get the best of me.
And as I gazed into his red eyes.. those fiery red eyes that reminds me of Him— I saw.. I saw spite.
His style of combat.. wild, unpredictable. It surpassed the level of a normal third circle mage— one who's still supposed to be getting used to casting spells without chanting.
