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Gavid looked down at his right hand.
He could see Glory. The blade was never supposed to shatter. But now, it lay in pieces, yet the hilt he gripped remained intact. That was all that was left. It could no longer be called a sword, nor could it serve as one.
"Fascinating,” Gavid murmured in a hoarse voice.
He felt his body with his unoccupied hand. His once spotless white shirt was now in tatters. His crisply creased trousers were frayed, and his polished shoes were no better.
He ran a hand through his hair. Even his neatly pomade hair, combed back with care, was a mess. He had never imagined he would show himself to the world in such a disheveled and unseemly state.
Gavid chuckled softly while closing his eyes for a moment. He murmured, "Is that so?"
Gavid Lindman was under a profound misconception. He harbored a fundamental contradiction.
He had wandered the barren wasteland for a year. He had faced countless deaths at the hands of War God Agaroth. Despite using the Demoneye of Divine Glory and wielding Glory, defeat had always been an unalterable outcome.
Was it because the Demoneye of Divine Glory and Glory were weak?
No. They were merely tools that allowed him to borrow the power of Incarceration. No matter how unique or superior the tool, if handled poorly, it could only produce results comparable to the expertise of the handler.
He needed to reflect on himself before relying on the tools.
The Demoneye of Divine Glory and Glory were, in the end, the possessions of the Demon King of Incarceration.
He could not surpass...
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