At the perimeter of the island, black-grey waves surged and crashed against the smooth rock walls, spurting up dozens of meters high with a bang.
Several figures descended from the sky, the rings on their fingers emanating a faint glow which caused the surrounding hundreds of meters of grey fog to dissipate like melting spring snow.
"We've survived!"
The figure in a dark green cloak spoke.
His hood was already torn, revealing hair as messy and tangled as seaweed under the light. His cloak was mere tattered fabric, and the battle armor beneath it was marred with scars and soaked with blood in several places where it had been pierced through.
It would be difficult for anyone who saw him in this state to imagine that he was a noble and exalted myth.
The Island Master did not care. Compared to the act of living, the image of a myth meant little. Besides, the other myths present were just as ragged, having all narrowly escaped death. To have survived was fortunate enough.
