"So, has the Saintly Lady finally agreed to join hands in cooperation?"
Fafnir leisurely stirred her spoon, emitting an eerie scent from the fake coffee made of crushed and dried dandelion and chicory roots. Serving as a barometer for the war situation, even the taste of the fake coffee directly reflected Charlemagne's current predicament—the ever-worsening taste of this imitation more eloquent than any argument.
Swallowing the bitter concoction, Roland sighed as he experienced the terrifying taste, causing cells from his tongue to his stomach to scream in unison.
"Though it's termed cooperation, it's limited to fighting against Li Lin. In other respects, we have absolutely no common ground."
It would be strange if there was any.
