"Impossible... impossible...."
Large beads of sweat emerged on his forehead and slid down his cheeks. In just half a minute, the sweat had drenched the back of Archbishop Henry.
"Sir... Archbishop, what's wrong with you?"
Saintess Constance, upon hearing the fearful whisper coming from Archbishop Henry's mouth, stretched out her slender, pale arm, fumbling around, "Archbishop, where are you?"
"I'm fine..."
Archbishop Henry seized his granddaughter's wrist, his voice hoarse as he said, "It's the Church of Truth, they've used Mist Magic."
"Mist... Magic?" Constance didn't quite understand, "What's the problem with Mist Magic?"
