"Do you know… what death truly means?"
The question left Agaroth's lips as he stood at the center of the Shadow Sect, surrounded by houses and buildings on all sides, each one sheltering what remained of humanity in this world.
Frey was there as well.
But he couldn't move.
He tried—but Agaroth formed a spear of strange dark aura in his palm and hurled it with precision, pinning it deep into Frey's thigh.
Another followed immediately, driven through his other leg, nailing him to the ground.
"My question is simple," the King continued calmly.
"But I am certain you will not be able to answer it."
"Because the concept of death… is different for you and me, compared to them."
Agaroth spread his arms wide, his dark cloak fluttering like living shadow around him.
"Their deaths mean nothing more than the loss of dried ink… no different from erasing a few words from an old book."
