Roland's gaze was nailed to the line of text, steeped in a dark, blood-red light. In the dead silence, his heartbeat felt exceptionally heavy.
The initial ecstasy was extinguished as if doused by ice water, replaced by a complex mix of shock, gravity, and a hint of absurdity.
"Plunge into a grand war of roaring steel and sky-rending war drums..."
He repeated the first line in a low voice, his brow tightly furrowed.
This was nothing like the Professional Panel's usual cold, direct prompts, such as "Power Attribute must reach a certain value" or "master a specific Skill."
It was more like a…
'An ancient proverb?'
"In the vortex of horn and blood and fire..."
Roland's gaze slowly drifted downward.
"Thou must become the blade of victory, the weight that decides the outcome..."
The sentence echoed in his mind, and a grave expression slowly crept into his eyes.
