Fernard sat on his throne, frustration mounting as he swept aside the mountainous piles of books surrounding him.
His anger, no longer containable, erupted: "Bogart? How much longer must I be buried in these books?"
Behind Fernard's throne, a Wraith materialized, utterly different from Sheimodo.
This Wraith, clad in a golden white robe, exuded a gentle demeanor.
His face, revealed beneath the brim of his robe's hood, was creased with wrinkles.
Had Bogart not been floating, no one would have guessed this elderly figure was a Wraith.
Bogart's face carried a warm smile as he spoke softly, like a gentle breeze and a light rain: "My lord, these books are the secret treasures of my Cult. You must master them; otherwise, you will never fully wield the power of my Cult."
Fernard let out a long sigh, his resignation palpable as he sat back down. "You always say that. Is there ever an end to it?"
