The Skeleton King, clad in tattered armor, bearing a worn crown, held a scythe in his hand—the very image of death incarnate.
The Zombie King was a blur of flesh and blood, maggots occasionally falling from his body, emanating an intense stench of rot and decay, his hand gripping a massive axe.
The Phantom King, with a contorted visage, the spitting image of a resentful spirit, was surely enough to make children cry.
Neither the Ghoul nor the Werewolf were any better; the former looked as if it had been flayed alive, horrific in aspect, while the latter was covered in pustules and reeked of filth.
At this moment, Edward felt uneasy, especially seeing the furrowed brows of a female standing beside his potential new master, her expression one of disgust when she looked at them.
This only increased his anxiety.
But he had no choice, for the appearances of his companions were indeed hard to admire.
