How could Shermans forget those eyes, eyes swirling with a blazing white storm, like eternal daylight.
"Demon Hunter..."
For an instant, it felt as if he was back in that seemingly endless night, burning rage and uncontrollable despair. Shermans immediately pulled the trigger, thick gun smoke rose with a brief flash of fire, and a lead bullet shot out from the gun barrel.
The acrid smoke made Shermans somewhat uncomfortable, also obscuring his vision.
He wasn't a warrior. In the end, he was just an ordinary person with fervent faith, and he was old, without any guards by his side, and all he had was an outdated flintlock gun. What's more, Shermans had already fired, and reloading this damned weapon was extremely troublesome. Facing the Demon Hunter at such close range, he really didn't have the chance to fire a second shot.
