In the inn, the most beautiful music in the world was playing.
On the other side, Elf King Alfred staggered away, his gaunt figure casting a long shadow under the moonlight, his once neat and splendid formal attire now tattered and torn.
His skin, whiter than a woman's, was covered in dust and grime.
The handsome face, devoid of any masculine ruggedness, was smeared with blood. Fresh blood gushed from his nostrils, clots formed in his ears, and from the corners of his eyes, two trails of blood were drawn, not to mention his mouth, where half of his teeth were shattered.
The stunning face that had haunted numerous Noble Ladies' dreams looked utterly disheveled at that moment.
His gem-like eyes were filled with an anguish so intense it seemed indissoluble, and he breathed heavily, his mind reeling from the recent events.
Was that the Hero's strength? In front of him, Alfred's pride in his own strength seemed as fragile as soap bubbles, easily crushed into fragments.
