The space-time of the Net Path was a bizarre, kaleidoscopic sight.
The Real Cosmos twisted and folded in on itself here.
「Radiant Calendar, year 1459. November, Iberian Time.」
The Punisher traveled smoothly.
They had endured a series of high-stakes battles, each a brush with the Death God himself. But now, after successfully withdrawing from Kemola despite the enemy's relentless pursuit, Manon's taut nerves finally began to relax.
Still encased in Power Armor, his magnificent, two-point-six-meter-tall frame collapsed backward as if its strings had been cut, and he sat down heavily on the deck.
He reached up and yanked off the stuffy, sweat-stinking Full Coverage Helmet, taking a deep gulp of the ship's relatively fresh air.
Leaning against the bulkhead, he ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair, shared a look with Matthias, and let out a hearty laugh.
