The southern boundary wall cracked, towers wobbled on the verge of collapse, and chaos reigned on the twisted streets; that once vibrant architecture and plazas had turned to rubble in the quaking, as the columns in the sand continued to crumble and sink layer by layer.
Saint Solomon, covered in cuts from blades and his robes stained with blood, although weak, finally reached the city gate, his eyes ablaze with the flames of victory.
However, all of this completely inverted the moment he clearly saw Loren's figure.
Moonlight retreated into shadows.
The shouts echoing among the crowd seemed like spirits unable to break free from their entanglement.
"Lies, it's all lies…"
Saint Solomon clutched his head, almost tearing his own scalp.
Throughout the city-state, he could only hear cries filled with calls to Loren.
Those voices, like incessant thunderstorms, reverberated in Solomon's ears, nearly churning his wrinkled brain into disarray.
