Chepardea’s tongue was very long. It could stretch out for a long distance even after wrapping around dozens of logs. It meant that the part of the tongue that was being wielded like a whip to squeeze Leraje’s neck was but only a small part of it. 

“I have lived long enough to see this. Croak.” 

Chepardea’s round eyes stared at the part of his tongue that was severed. It fell at Leraje’s feet, flapped around like it was resentful, and messed up the carpet. It was like a big leech or a catfish. 

“I didn’t know I would see a world where the aloof Sword Saint would come and go from hell. Croak.” 

Chepardea was Baal’s subordinate and had lived for a long time. He wasn’t comparable to the three evils of the beginning or the single digit great demons, but at the very least, he had experienced the fall of the previous world and the beginning of this world. Naturally, he had witnessed several Sword Saints and he identified their common tendencies. 

They were crazy about the sword. They used whatever they held in their hand as the sword. If they had nothing to hold, then they used themselves as the sword. They spent decades trying to make the sword one with their heart. Additionally, after reaching the peak of swordsmanship, there was a tendency to abandon the ‘form’ and repeat the training from the beginning. They were actually close to truthseekers. They were far from...