When Rod woke up again, the clock had reached its eleventh hour.
Another hour, and it would be dusk, the time when the sun sets.
The last invasion had occurred at this exact time.
He checked his state, feeling mentally refreshed and full of Spiritual Energy.
He was just feeling a bit hungry.
Well, even if he died, he would die on a full stomach.
Rod left his room, went downstairs, and the moment he entered the crowded tavern, there were cheers.
"Rod!"
"Rod!"
"Our Rod!"
"Black glutton Rod!"
The residents of the Iron Cross district were very warm and hospitable (truly), holding great fondness for every warrior who protected them.
According to the Academy's statistics, only one Fire Holder was born out of every three hundred people. For those who did not possess the Power of Fire, each Fire Holder was a legend to be admired.
They rhythmically tapped the tables, each person raising their glasses to him.
