Fang Hong pondered briefly before answering the question.
And his answer was unusually simple: "I, of course, am qualified."
The Wanderer was slightly taken aback, narrowing his eyes to look at him. That face, originally belonging to Count Westwood Sibika, was pale, with thin lips pressed tightly together, and there was a flicker in the depths of his eyes, pondering the aning.
But Fang Hong stepped forward, opened his mouth, and almost silently uttered a na to him.
The silently uttered word was like a sword reflecting cold light, striking the Wanderer's ashen face, resembling a glass reflection, long and sharp, penetrating deep into his gaze, reaching the depths of the heart, making him involuntarily retreat a step.
The Wanderer shivered, nearly interrupting his spell—
The atmosphere on the square almost froze, with a young scholar unexpectedly raising his head to look in this direction.
Eve's teary eyes lingered between Fang Hong and the Wanderer; she had never seen her adoptive father show such an expression, silent, cold, even sowhat inhuman, as if nothing in this world was worth another glance from him.
At this mont, his facial expression was almost twisted and ferocious, mouth agape as if revealing a set of white, nacing fangs. He was gazing at Fang Hong with an unbelievable look—that story buried deep within him, the high fortress, the woman in the castle, only resembling a pale shadow passing through the deepest parts of his heart.
Making his hair stand on end. Those were the most frantic days of his life, the unspeakable secrets he thought were well sealed beneath the sands of ti, becoming a nightmare he didn't wish to revisit.
And those tis, at this mont, all crystallized into a na.
What Fang Hong said was—
"Eve, I have seen your mother."
"She is very much like you."
The tears on the young girl's face instantly burst like a dam.
The na was Cris Rogersel.
"Shut up," the Wanderer lost composure for the first ti, a vein bulging on his forehead, while Delice's voice turned sharp and shrill, emitting a piercing scream: "You, are not qualified to ntion her—!"
But Fang Hong rely made a 'click' sound to unlock the Pride of the Lonely King, the silver arm armor spreading its shell and sliding to the ground, revealing a hand scarred due to magic power overload.
He did not directly answer the Wanderer's words.
Because he was asking Miss Tata a question in his heart:
"Miss Tata, I am not an Oathkeeper, how can I do that?"
In the darkness of the Mind World, Miss Fairy raised her head, quietly looking at her. She silently observed the young man for a mont, then quietly asked: "Mr. Knight, this is a road of no return, do you really want to do that?"
"I have no choice," Fang Hong replied: "As you see, I must do this to protect everyone around ."
"I must make a choice; this is Lady Misu's answer too, and mine."
"Nini might be able to help you, Mr. Knight."
"Papa—" Little Dragon Soul tilted her head, looking at him, calling softly.
Fang Hong turned back, looking tenderly at his 'daughter.'
He didn't know what consequences his actions might bring. But this could very well be the last ti he sees his two Miss Dragon Souls.
He couldn't help but reach out his hand to stroke Nini's flowing fiery long hair. Then he looked up at Miss Tata, answering: "Thank you, Miss Tata. I planned to take you to more places, but who knew, it might just end here."
"Perhaps not necessarily, Mr. Knight."
Tata replied.
She quietly said: "The dragon wings you've seen have covered the sky, casting a shadow over the land. The prophecy about death you saw at Traveler's Rest, but do you rember what saved you then?"
"Wasn't it you, Miss Tata?"
Tata shook her head: "Do you rember Tada Ritualist's words?"
"Pale Glory?"
"Perhaps."
Fang Hong was silent for a mont; he nodded, then shook his head. He might have understood so things, but at the mont, there was no ti to think about what Tada Ritualist's prophecy really ant.
"Then I'll go," he said: "Miss Tata."
Miss Fairy looked at him calmly, nodding with rare tenderness.
The darkness in Fang Hong's eyes faded; the long conversations in the Mind World, in reality, were just a fleeting instant.
The Wanderer had just hysterically shouted that phrase, then he raised his head. From the depths of his dark pupils, two golden flas seed to blaze, piercing the darkness, staring directly at the 'Count Westwood Sibika' in front.
Fang Hong lightly clenched his fist, answering word by word:
"I am the bloodline heir of the Grossel Family."
"This is my qualification—"
Those words struck the opponent like a bolt of lightning.
The sword in the Wanderer's hand fell to the ground with a clang.
And seeing this scene, a flash of insight passed through Fang Hong's mind in an instant.
He had long suspected that the opponent's identity had a connection with the Grossel Family, ever since listening to Nikopolas's tale, he realized that the so-called 'Alte Erlingran' definitely was not the opponent's first identity.
Those dark and ancient pieces of knowledge—where did they originate from?—whether it was the changes in Toragotos, the origins of Rolin, or the girl in the castle, the emblem of the running wolf, all clues seed to point to the cold Kingdom—a frost-covered Long Fjord.
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