When Slave Master Sarifov Shadowblade finally appeared, Bertie didn't rush forward to salute his mentor, but instead instinctively drew the Vampire Spike Sword at his waist and leveled it at him.
The sheer aggression of that movement made Sarifov halt where he stood.
These days he'd been shuttling between the Old Continent and the New, looking travel-worn and weary, and now he regarded Bertie with a strangely complex gaze—those eyes in the darkness glinting blood-red—and then the Mechanical Female Warrior at his side, already in combat mode, Plasma Flames coiling around her forearms.
It had been less than a month since the Charldo Harbor incident, yet the relationship between the three of them could already be summed up as "the things are the same, but the people are not."
"I'm sorry."
Sarifov spoke in a tired voice:
