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“Getting back up in that dying state is admirable, but stop if you think you can face me. It’d be a shame to kill a mage of your caliber so easily,” Nekator said calmly.
He was always blunt, and he meant every word he said. He could kill Grania with one strike, and precisely for that reason, he didn’t want to. He wanted to savor a Grand Mage standing on the threshold of the eighth tier.
Even if Leon’s party were wiped out, Nekator would spare him, though only for now, so he could finish him properly once he’d recovered.
Grania muttered, “I put my fear of death down decades ago. What remains in this body is… an excess of useless knowledge and… eyes that cannot see through a single person.”
“Was that betrayal of your disciple really that shocking?” Nekator asked.
“Life, I think, is the work of leaving footprints before death comes. And my once-proud footprints have become a stain…”
Grania’s face had gone pale. Paler than many who had lain bedridden for years, not simply because of blood loss. The psychological shock of Edgar’s betrayal and the disappointment at not even being able to read the heart of the disciple he’d treated like a son must have hit him like a m...
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