It was a beautiful frost insect.
Beautiful? Bartlett frowned, wondering what was wrong with his brain as he stared at a white beast over ten meters long, and was caught off guard by this inappropriate term.
However, perhaps among its own kind, it could genuinely be called a beauty or rather, a "beauty bug."
At this moment, the "beautiful" frost insect was curled up, burying its head—with a pair of pincers-like upper jaws—into the white carcass of some unknown creature split in half, feasting happily.
Bartlett and the members of the Low Novel were sneaking behind a sturdy fir tree and secretly observing. They resembled a group of boys in puberty, peeking at the village women bathing by the riverside—eyes glued with excitement and occasionally whispering in hushed tones.
"Is it eating?" The half-elven's handsome face appeared to the right of Bartlett, quietly asking in a low voice, "What's it eating?"
