In the tent, an elderly man with white hair knelt on the ground with his eyes tightly closed.
On the table in front of him lay a copper mirror the size of a soccer ball.
The mirror contained a profound and twisted pitch-black vortex, with faint green streaks swimming through it.
Steam rose from the old man's head as if it were boiled, condensing into threads that tunneled into the mirror before him.
All the while, he was making a "report" in agony.
"That lord named George has completely seen through our plan; he has realized that we are misinterpreting the oracles.
"Not only that, this time our invasion of the Makala mountain region has completely failed; they have even sent people to form alliances with the Zanluo People.
"Please forgive my stupidity; I do not understand why that priest named Lloyd Gittiler would interfere in this matter.
"I heard he has encountered misfortune; his soul must have returned to Your Divine Domain, please instruct me on what to do next."
