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The vassals who saw Endymion for the first time were left speechless. Part of it was that he was an elf, and part of it was the realization that the high elder they had believed to be a legend truly existed. But those were trivial compared to the real reason: they were overwhelmed.
Endymion’s eyes were calm and deep, his posture relaxed and unguarded. There was nothing outwardly threatening about him, yet every warrior present thought of a single word when they looked at Endymion: perfection.
There were no openings or weaknesses. A certainty formed in their minds that nothing they did would work against him. Even the civil vassals, who did breathing as their form of exercise, forgot to breathe.
It felt as though the very space itself had been devoured by Endymion. They were like butterflies caught in a spider’s web, unable to move.
Endymion walked into the conference hall. Only then did those who had been dazed return to their senses.
“Huff… Huff…”
“Ha…”
What they felt was more than simply coming back from the brink of death—it was like dying, chatting with the Grim Reaper, and returning.
“Greetings, High Elder.”
At that moment, Hissop bowed his head toward Endymion. The current patriarch of Sefira formally acknowledged him as...
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