Of course, it is precisely for this reason that his territory is exceptionally poor, to the point where the towering city walls don't even have a decent cannon.
Under his heroic resistance, the rebel army attacking the city finally began to waver. They looked with fear at the blood-soaked god of death, and their offensive gradually weakened.
Just as the dawn of victory appeared before them, and the Wivert family was about to establish a new legend on this land, an almost imperceptible shadow quietly slipped out from the pile of corpses beside Solde.
It was a hunched figure, even shorter than a Dwarf, so that a cloak the size of a bath towel covered his entire body.
Solde sensed the danger and instinctively turned, but the fatigue accumulated from continuous combat made him a step too slow.
A poisoned Dagger silently and precisely pierced through the joint in his right leg's armor.
"Ah—!"
Solde cried out in pain, turning back with eyes wide open.
